


Love Game

by yilloofnarwin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 101,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yilloofnarwin/pseuds/yilloofnarwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a parallel world, where Rafael Nadal is simply and acceptedly in love with Roger Federer, living, touring, winning, losing - sharing everything...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my long-running story, beginning at the 2011 WTF in London and following their lives till these days, and hopefully beyond. There are about 30 chapters written so far and I will regularly update. I hope you all can enjoy reading it and taking time to comment is highly appreciated!

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 2oth of NOVEMBER, 2011

The first day of the ATP World Tour Finals is a sunny Sunday.  
I purposefully arrive early at the O2 arena, while the first doubles match is still in progress.  
I linger around the locker rooms, on the corridors, keep an eye on your door.  
It’s closed, I stand by it when nobody is looking and I almost knock on it.  
Almost, when I hear the doubles finish their match, so my arm sinks back at my side and I walk away. You are going to come out at any minute now.  
People come to make the last calls. Like in a theatre – 5 minutes left, Mr. Federer.  
I don’t see you walking out, it would be weird as Hell to, but I decide I’m gonna go sit in the players’ box and watch you play.

You arrive at the court, arrange your things, go to toss the coin at the net and warm up. I see all this on TV.  
I read all the statistics they put on screen. Again. I know them by heart. Roger Federer. Switzerland. Age 30. Height: 185 cm. Weight: 85 kg. (just like me) Turned pro in 1998. Current ranking 4th. Highest ranking 1st. Titles 69. Career Prize Money $65,174,935.  
I wonder what you did with that 5 dollars and I smile at the silly thought.

The match begins and I don’t go out to watch. I watch it on the locker room TV. I’m thinking I’m being a coward but I force myself to believe the reason of not sitting among the audience is that it might bother your game. I sigh.  
You play beautifully and strong but Tsonga is the same and you struggle some, winning one set but losing the second and standing even in the final one.  
We know Tsonga can beat you. He did it a few times. So I start to chew on my thumb and rip the skin open when you hit a ball in the net. We curse in synch, you only inside but I loud, and I can’t do this anymore, you are at 5-4 in the final set and Tsonga is serving next and I’m here, hiding in my locker room and not supporting you fully.

I rush out to the center court and slide into the players’ box. Kind of hoping the people are too occupied to see me, but no such luck, you are having your sit before the next game and fans are looking around and when some say, ’Rafa is here’, heads turn toward me and cameras also. I wave, then duck my head. Busted.

I see you glance at the giant screen, then look down immediately. Oh shit, do I really disturb you? I chase the unpleasant and stinging thought away.  
You are standing up, walking to the baseline to receive.  
Now I’m right at your left and you send a lopsided look in my direction, not really looking, only noting you know I’m there.  
One minute later you are breaking Tsonga, having the match point, and you win. Like, out of nowhere. I wow silently and cast a last look at you walking to greet Tsonga at the net, then I leave the box. Or more like I dissapear unnoticed, as you say later, before you could have seen me once again while packing up your stuff. I smile at you shyly and you smile back and say, “You could have stayed, Rafa, you know. Or come out to see me earlier.”

And I know at that moment that I will never bother your game.  
Unless you play me.  
That will happen on the next matchday, as we are drawn into the same group, B.  
I don’t think of that yet. I try hard not to.  
You won your first match, that is all that matters now.

I text you a _’felicitació’_ and get your _’merci’_ during my preparation for my own match. I spend at least 5 minutes grinning and Uncle Toni thinks I went insane.  
But I didn’t. Although even before the match begins, I need medical care because the skin I ripped from my thumb (being worried for you), opens again and starts to bleed.  
It doesn’t bother me much from that moment on, but makes me think of you for a brief second and I smile inwardly. You mess up my pre-match rituals but it doesn’t do any bad to me. On the contrary.

I win the first set and lead the second 2:0 when I feel my stomach getting upset and I leave the court for a bathroom break at an unusual time. Just fantastic, I managed to drink too icy water while my body was overheated and it ruins everything.  
I lose the second set, being in pain, but win the final one, tight though. Phew.

You scold me when I’m climbing in bed beside you. My defense is weak, I say, “You come watch me, too, then I win easy,” but you look at me strict and we both know that is not the dynamics we have. You never come, not at a tournament we both play. Because I certainly would be distracted.

We don’t mention the next match. Instead, you pull my head onto your chest and the last I hear before sleep claims me is the heartbeat of the greatest tennis player of all times.

The heartbeat of the man I love.

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 21st of NOVEMBER, 2011

We both have a free day on Monday.

My day is so much off, I can’t even practise because of some pain in my shoulder that you want to massage out but I bat your hands and say, “That why I have a physio-therapist, no?” You give in and we don’t do much more.

Except of you leaving for training and later appear at the center court to receive two of the year-end ATP Awards, that either the audience or the players themselves decided about. I watch on TV how the crowd cheers for you. You look stunning and I love your checked shirt.  
When you bring the huge crystal trophies back in our hotel room, I stand still beside them but don’t touch. You say, “You will have your own this year too, Raf, I voted for you,” and pull me to the bed. I watch the evening lights from the street play on the glassy surface while we are making out.  
I voted for you, too, Roger.

Later we read a summary on our rivalry, your favourite topic, and we watch the oldest video in line, that match in Miami from 2004, when I first met you on the court.  
You stare at it in awe and irritation. I look like a ripped kid from kindergarten, being only 17. You look like the World No. 1 you were, already at the age of 22. Número Uno, sí?  
But you also look like you are stunned that the little guy from kindergarten beat you in two straight sets.

I spend the next quarter hour rolling on the bed, laughing, and you are annoyed first, a frown on your face tells me, but join me in a bit. “Already you were elegant,” I say. “You were already nerve-racking,” you retort. We giggle some more.

You sleep smiling that night and I think I have to go out there and beat you tomorrow, Round Robin be cursed.

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 22nd of NOVEMBER, 2011

It’s still the weirdest feeling ever.

We awake together, have breakfast together, leave for some practice at the same time.  
Because we play at the exact same time. We play the same match today.

_Federer – Nadal._

I think I like the afternoon games more. Too much waiting before an evening match. Too much anticipation.  
I’m extremely excited. Even nervous. Like always, playing you.

I’m staring at your back at the sliding doors, when we are about to walk on court. You go out first, there is smoke produced by machines and it engulfs your legs. I think you seem giant but before I could let my mind continue this thought, the speakers blast your name and you are going out, leaving me behind, alone.  
The crowd is roaring inside when I take your former place and soon follow you.

It has begun.  
I don’t feel the game, I’m thinking, that artificial smoke swallowed my brain and now I can’t function. I can’t, actually, but if I could, that still wouldn’t be enough against you today.  
I can see it in your posture. In your every move.  
I lose the first set 3-6.

The worst is just about to come now, you are breaking all my serve games, you are beating me, defeating me, destroying me. When I’m down to 0-4, I can feel you just want it to be over and you are not enjoying a tiny bit of it anymore.

I lose 0-6.

You are coming toward me, to the net, extend your arm to shake my hand, with all your heart wanting to hug me, how we always do, whoever wins. I feel so sorry for you but I’m not able to look you in the eye.

We stare at each other in bed that night and nobody says anything.  
You won. I lost. It happens, I think, but I don’t like you couldn’t enjoy it.  
Sensing my discomfort, you lean in and brush your lips to my forehead, combing your fingers through my hair. “I did have some fun, mostly in the first set,” you say, and I’m so grateful I smile.

I know you would never lie about this.  
We kiss and fall asleep tangled up, the match erased from our minds.

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 23rd of NOVEMBER, 2011

I indeed win the _Arthur Ashe Humanitarian Award_ which comes with the same crystal vase, so now we have three of them proudly standing on the table. You state mine between yours, in the middle, and I feel like grinning wide.

You took me to the All-England Club today.

We were allowed to go in the centre court where we have the Wimbledon tournament, but is closed at this time of the year.  
We hit some, just for fun, and you say I have to forget all the defeats of this year by Djokovic now, and win the match against Tsonga because you want me in the semi-finals with you.  
You mean it, I know. I wonder if it’s all that it takes, you grasping my shoulder, looking deep in my eyes, and ordering me to win.  
The athmosphere of the All-England perfectly matches our silent plea and promise.  
The moment is precious. Solemn. And you say you are going to come sit out in the players’ box and see me, and we smile because we know that won’t happen.  
I don’t mind.

We go to practice, separated of course.

In the evening you demand me to dress up warm because Thierry Henry is gonna be here to pick us up in an hour and take us to the Arsenal stadium to see the football Champions League match. I’m concerned. Who said I wanted to see random teams that would be the enemy of my team one day?  
You only snicker at me, slap my thigh with your towel and say, “Not everything is about Real Madrid. Get dressed! NOW!”  
I’m appalled but rethinking my options, who am I to refuse Roger Federer?

We go, pick up your Daddy, too, on the way, and I thoroughly enjoy the match in the end. We listen to Thierry’s professional comments on the game and in the break we eat disgusting hot dogs at the buffet and they are so tasty! After the match we visit the team, Arsenal that is, in their locker room and while I only smile silently, you get Robin van Persie’s jersey as a gift and you take pictures with practically everybody, coach Arsene Wenger included. We have a great relaxing night. You are always right. And you invited the whole team for the next day tennis matches.

Back in the hotel, we check how Nole was beaten also in two straight sets.  
We stare at the TV screen and you say now it’s sure he can only be your opponent in the semis, if he reaches them, as you will finish top in our group, and he can be only second in his.

I can’t decide if this is supercool or terrible.

This final tournament doesn’t go how it was supposed to.

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 24th of NOVEMBER, 2011

It’s becoming my routine to arrive early, while you are still having your afternoon match.

I wonder if you can feel my eyes intently on you, watching you from my dark corner of hiding. You are moving like a gazelle. I couldn’t tear my eyes away even if I wanted.

Whatever you feel all of my stare, you win rather fast and sort of easy, standing on top of the Group B with perfect record, 3 matches, 3 wins. It’s over for you, and the horrible thought that I might ruin your happiness again if I lose and don’t go through to the semi-finals creeps me out.

I want to be there with you. I want.  
Don’t panic, Rafa! Don’t!  
I try to clear my mind.

I run into three or four Arsenal players at the corridors. They (and not only their wives!) might even faint by how awesome you were and promise they stay for my evening match, too.

That eventually comes and I lose the battle but I don’t bow out without a fight.

I’m drained. Mentally, physically. But I’m not that shaken, I giggle at my press conference how bad I played. I think of you will like that I say if in the first two sets I played not bad but not good, then the last set was a disaster. You will laugh at that and at my English again. I never find it hurtful when you laugh at my English though.

After the press rounds I’m getting my post-match massage.  
I don’t know you were there to see me until you appear in my locker room.  
You hug me and zip my bags, take them on your shoulders and carry them to your rented car.  
I follow and you drive me to the hotel.

I say I’m not hungry, I just wanna sleep, but you are making a light dinner for me in the kitchen corner.  
When I have the first bite, I realize I’m starving and shove all the food in my face till the very last morsel is gone.  
You are smiling gently and I feel seriously relieved.  
“You saw me lose. Again,” I say.  
“Stop scrunching your nose up!” you answer.  
I stop.

“Let’s go to bed!” With that you lead me to the bedroom, undress me and lay me down. Kissing every inch of my skin until my cock laying hard and ready on my belly, leaking.  
Then you take it in your mouth and suck me off. I moan as loud as on court when I come between your lips. You swallow it all.  
We don’t talk; you are resting your head on my stomach and I’m petting your head rhytmically. You have the most gorgeous hair in the world.  
It’s calming. Familiar.  
Home.

“I will fight on, on your behalf, too,” you murmur.  
“I know, Rog.”  
I’m sure you got rock hard as well, and I want to return the favour but when I call your name, you are snoring softly, your head still on my body.  
I lie awake for long, thinking, we didn’t brush our teeth and we are gonna hate the food and the junk’s taste in our mouth in the morning.  
Yet, I don’t move anymore to let you sleep in peace.


	2. Part Two

### LONDON, ENGLAND, 25th of NOVEMBER, 2011

I sleep in. You are gone when I wake up.  
I drag myself to the bathroom to brush my teeth at last.  
I order breakfast and go online while I’m having it, watching your post-match presser.  
In your every reply there is ’Rafa and me…’ or ’Me and Rafa…’  
Or ’Rafa and me and the other good players’.  
You couldn’t be more obvious. I grin.

Then it hits me, I’m out of the Finals and I have to pack and leave, to join my national team for the Davis Cup final in Sevilla.

It makes me sad I can’t stay for your upcoming matches.

But I still have today with you here in London, and when you are back, we go out sightseeing and you take silly photos of me in front of every historical building, as if we were on honeymoon or something like that, and we had never been to London. You say these pictures will help you go on while I’m not by your side.

We are walking hand in hand through the city, giving some autographs here and there, and when we get back to the hotel, you print out your favourite photo you took of me and tape it on the bedside lamp.

“I’m so going to miss you, Roger,” I sigh, and you say I shouldn’t worry, I can watch you on TV, we will have face-calls, and you are following me to Sevilla after your last match, immediately.

I upload the picture to my Facebook, along with the bilingual message to fans. I don’t tell them you took the photo but I guess they know anyway.

You are helping me pack.

Well, not really. You are picking up all my shit I left scattered around the whole suite, and when you are done with quite a pile, you bring it to my bed (that was unused), and drop it down, saying, “Seriously, Raf, what are you, twelve?”  
“Sí, and you are a mother hen,” I wink at you.

You come at me and tackle me that moment, and we wrestle, then kiss, then tickle, then kiss.  
“Remember last year’s celebratory fuck after the final?” I ask you but you don’t hear me properly because you started to laugh at the very second I said ’fuck’. You can’t get over it that I say it in a certain accented way. Not in years! I roll my eyes and let you be, laughing till you are in tears.

“Now who is twelve, hijo de puta?” I say and watch your jaw drop and your eyes darken.  
“You didn’t just call me son of a bitch, did you?”

I dismiss it with a hand gesture but you are not having any of it. You jump me again, tear my trackpants and underwear off, throw me on my front on the huge pile of clothes and I feel you having every intention to punish me.  
Slight panic creeps up on my spine. I’m untouched since the tournament’s beginning and I’m not up to get my ass ripped. Not now.

You are holding me down, laying on top of me, and I try to escape but you suck on my earlobe and I can’t fight that. It feels good, so good. I missed you in me and that is what’s coming.

I turn my head to see your eyes a bit. They are still too wild, so I grunt out a weak “Roger…” as a warning.  
You clamp your palm on my mouth. “Shh,” you say. “Not gonna hurt you.”

I calm down and you don’t hurt me. You get lube from the nightstand and though in a hurry, you thoroughly prepare me, and while I groan with every thrust of yours, I’m aware you are spitting unknown Swiss German phrases at me till the moment I come onto my own clothes, my cock trapped between them and my belly, untouched by you.

Only then you are releasing me from your death-grip, and let yourself come inside of me.  
We are taking a breather, you still on top of me, and I moan a ’sapastre’.  
You claim you don’t know what that means but it sounds insulting and if I want more, I could ask nicer. It means idiot, actually, but I don’t enlighten you.

“No. No,” I say. “No more. Not like this. Have mercy on my clothes!” I plead.  
We begin to laugh and you promise you will get my dirtied stuff cleaned and bring after me to Spain.

I love our days off.

Late in the evening we get to know Berdych beat David Ferrer, so Nole is out of the Finals, and you have Ferrer against you in the semi-final tomorrow.

Did I say this tournament is nothing like we’ve predicted?

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 26th of NOVEMBER, 2011

I leave early in the morning, steal a last kiss from you at the airport, and taking your private jet with my team. You insisted, you don’t like me fly alone on any usual plane without you.

After a two hours flight I arrive at Sevilla. I call you, telling I’m all right and the jet left to get back to London.

You are on your way to warm-up and I don’t have anything much to do. I lazy around in my hotel room and sit in front of the TV two hours early, flicking the remote nervously.

I wonder if you even noticed I stuffed one of my name-tagged towels in your tennis bag. I also stole one of yours. It wasn’t even washed. Still has your sweat on it.

I’m waiting for 3 o’clock to come, watching the doubles semi.

When you are walking out on court, I hold my breath back.

I have some opposite feelings about this match because of David, who is a Spaniard and my team mate at the Davis Cup ties. Not to mention, a good friend of mine. We will practise together just in two days again, but now you have to defeat him.

I feel sorry for him. But who am I kidding here? I cheer for both of you with my heart; for David, with my Spanish heart, but for you, with the lover’s heart.  
That makes all the difference, no?

A camera zooms in on you and there it is, demonstratingly laying at your foot. You’ve got my ’message’ and took it to the court with you.

_My towel._

The cameraman and the director of the broadcast have a sense of romance – they are showing off your bench for longer, lingering on your preparation, and the towel, neatly folded in a way to clearly show the name on it: Rafael Nadal.

I can’t stop grinning like a fool when the audience discovering it on the giant screens, and awing.  
You look up to see what is going on but duck your head fast and try to swallow a very, very small smile. I see it!  
I’m deeply touched by your flaunted declaration of love for me.

You play brilliant.

David can’t touch your serve, he has no chance.  
You win in 1 hour and 25 minutes. Impressive. Easy, simple.  
I think there is no player right now who could beat you.

It’s very unusual but you call me at the moment you get back in your locker room, and you are all grins, I can hear it in your voice.

"You have the 100th, Rogi," I say, noting you have got in your 100th career final.  
You chuckle. “I made it, huh?”  
We don’t have time to talk more, the press conference and interviews are waiting for you. It’s all a big run, following every match we play.  
“Wanna watch Real together?” you ask and I say a hurried and huge yes, so you promise you will set up the video chat before the referee blows his whistle.

You don’t know how much I love you for keeping track of my football team! It warms my heart that you care so much, even when all you should think of is the final tomorrow.

So we are video chatting and watching Real Madrid vs. Atletico Madrid, aka the Derby.

Real performs nice and they win 4:1 but I don’t see half of it because at some point you start acting really seducing and it’s not the first time I can’t pay attention to football (or a MotoGP race!) because my eyes are drawn to your long fingers stroking your dick.

I’m all in anyway. It’s a relaxing night for me and I’m drinking half a bottle of wine during the first half of the match. So you say, “Here comes your alcohol intolerance in the picture, Rafa.”

Indeed. I’m a weak drinker, one glass and I’m gone. So when you begin to play your sexy game, I can only join and we miss the match.

Meanwhile in the O2 arena Jo-Wilfried defeats Berdych and goes through to the final.  
You have your opponent.

We say good night, you want to have dinner with your family and I got sleepy from the drinking and sex.

You say you are going to be here with me in less than 36 hours and I can’t wait!

But first thing is first, you have to bring the World Tour Finals trophy home!

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 27th of NOVEMBER, 2011

I’m eating my usual vanilla with cookies ice cream at the Olympic Stadium’s locker room and wait for F1 from Brazil to start. I’m going to see the start but then I go for a practice for the Davis Cup with the guys, so I can finish before your match.

I’m quickly checking Facebook, mails and my website and laugh at the wacky photo you made of yourself in the car, driving to O2 to warm-up before your final.

I read Tsonga said he would break both of his ankles if that was the price of winning against you! Has he been always this crazy? I’m a bit scared by the fire in his eyes!

I text you a ’good luck’ before I leave and I won’t bother you again before the match. But you text back and say it’s good to see that I and my sexy nipples are already awake and fit.

I type, **’Huh?’** , and you refresh my memory of what happened last night. I apparently don’t remember pinching my nipples with wet fingers for your demand. I just want the ground open under me and swallow me! I groan.

**‘U bring the ’best’ out of me, Rog’** I write and we leave it at this.

Back in my hotel, I have everything open when the final begins – TV, Facebook, Twitter, your website.  
I don’t know why, because I won’t be able to pay attention to anything more than the match itself. It’s just good to read some encouraging words from your fans and it makes me grin when I see some best wishes from my fans, too. _’Rafa fans for Roger.’_ They are nice, aren’t they?

You are playing like the king you are. Imperious. Back with full power.

I wonder what Jo thinks and right now I wouldn’t want to be in his place for every treasure in the world! Your body language is radiating such a frightening confidence that I would piss myself, and indeed Jo’s hands are shaking at the worst moments and you are having match and tournament point in the 2nd set. I have no doubts, you are going to win it in two straight sets.

And the drama comes.

You lose the match points and Jo wins the 2nd set.

I’m upset as Hell, this can’t happen again, you can’t lose from match point again!

Until the 5th or 6th game of the final set, you can’t find the way back to your calm playing, you are taken aback by the lost second set and Jo’s fantastic game. He is amazing! It’s not only drama for me to watch these minutes, but more. Horror!

I regret I didn’t stay, I regret I’m not there in your box. My place would be there.  
Then again, I have seen you come out on top from such matches so many times.

And when I really start to worry and bite my nails, your posture and the glint in your eyes are changing. You are coming back in the match with full force, breaking Jo at the best moment, when you can lead 5-4, and serve for the match, for the tournament.

And Jo hits the last shot wide and you are punching the air with both hands and shaking your fists and I can see some small tears gathering in your eyes.

You are world champion for the 6th time.  
The only man who achieved this title six times, ever.

I can’t do anything with myself, I don’t know if I should shout, jump, laugh or cry, and then half of my team piles into my room and my Dad hugs me, holding me tight, saying “We are all so proud of you, boys!”

I decide I wanna cry after all but it won’t come out.

I reach for my mobile to send you a congratulation which I know you won’t receive too soon because of the ceremony and the press duties you are gonna have later. I don’t mind that.

We are sitting around on my bed and in the armchairs, too many people in my bedroom, watching you giving your speech.

You say Jo sucked the last energy you had out of you, and I get jealous for a slight second, but my family laughs and I relax; it’s not like he really sucked you of course, because in that case I would break both of his ankles with my bare hands, and the tennis world would become shorter with a great player!

I forget this thought because my brain goes on in another way about you and sucking, and I feel my body getting interested so I have to clear my throat and think of something not sexy.

You are receiving the trophy now, in the usual confetti shower, and you are beautiful, so beautiful, showing it off, and I want to reach out to pick confetti out of your hair, how we had done it at ceremonies so many times before.

Uncle Toni produces a bottle of champagne from somewhere; I suspect he is the magician I thought he was when I was little, because it’s sure as Hell I didn’t hear him call room service! The only option is that he pulled it out of his magic hat!

He is the one who offers me the glass of drink and I’m grateful because he was always the one who struggled the most with accepting you by my side. Not because you are also a guy, but because you were my arch-enemy in his eyes. Sometimes before our matches against each other, I’m sure he still thinks you are! Once he was very upset and said, ’This is the guy you have to defeat, not fuck!’ Did you know I didn’t talk with him for two days after that?

I think of many small things from our relationship, even that when you told me, whenever you feel lonely somewhere, you read some old stuff, particularly my blogs I did for ATP from Roland Garros for two years in a row. You said there are parts in them where I brought up your name out of the blue, so randomly you always thought I’m quite a messy kid. And when I always talked about you in those blogs or in interviews, it was very obvious I was having a huge crush on you, from the very first moment. But what I didn’t ever know, is that you had the same crush, just developped slower, you admitted years later. You said your favourite sentence ever was that when I blogged about attending the Laureus Awards in 2006, getting the Newcomer of the Year title, and you were sat at my table and we chatted in English and I wrote ’Everyone knows I like Roger.’

I don’t know why these things rush through my mind now but they put the widest smile on my face. I had already liked you before we ever met.

I take a look at the laptop that lays here forgotten and I see my Twitter feed bursting with tweets like these.

@Maheshbhupathi: Anyone who doesn't think Federer is the greatest player of all time needs serious help.. Numbers don't lie... Masterclass once again!!!

@delpotrojuan: Grande Roger! Felicitaciones!!!

@PatrickMcEnroe: The Fed's passion still burning!!!! Incredible

@Becker_Boris: Federer is still the MAN in tennis !

@yvesallegro: Great end of the season for the RF! Looking forward for some great tennis in 2012! Men's tennis at his best!

Players, ex-players, football players and practically everybody is talking about you and your name is trending. My chest almost rips open by pride!

I sip my champagne and think of you when my phone goes off and it’s a picture you had taken of you with the cup, in your locker room!  
Then you ring me. You never call right after the matches, simply because of the lack of time, so I’m surprised that you do this the second time this week, and completely flushed when I hear your happy voice in my ears.

Suddenly you also don’t know what to say and you force out a clumsy “Uhm…”, and we start to giggle and I’m seeing my team leaving my room in a hurry. I’m grateful to them leaving because you say you love me and you were thinking of me even during the match a bit, and it makes me red as a tomato.

“You make my blood boil, Raf, and you made me go on and win!” you say and I feel stupid, I don’t know what I should answer to that, so I start to giggle and tell you I had a silly moment when in myself I made a promise to Jo, if he makes a double fault again, I will sing the Marseilles to him! And he did hit a double fault!

You are laughing for minutes. It makes me feel accomplished. I keep you amused.

You need to go soon, clean up, presser and many many individual interviews are waiting for you again. You say they asked for following you with a camera rolling on your press tour and you foolishly said yes.

I say “Te quiero!” in Spanish, not in Mallorquín this time and you return it in Swiss German that you know I love.  
“I wish I could take you to the gala dinner, Rafa!” you sigh, and I regret again not staying, and think of jumping on a plane and surprise you. But it can’t happen, the time is too little and I’m too far.  
“I see you tomorrow, Rog. Come back to me safe and bring the cup!” I joke and we hung up.

Later you call me again, from the banquet, and you are tipsy and talking shit, absolutely nonsense, apologizing for not letting me sleep early, no matter I say it’s okay.

You are muttering something about your favourite interview you gave after the final, to DavisCup.com, saying you think Spain with me on the team will have the upper hand.  
We giggle some, you are an entertaining drunk.  
When you hung up, I go to check the site and indeed it’s there.

_“I’m sure it’s an open match in some ways but I think Spain are really the overwhelming favourite. They are playing at home and they have an incredibly solid team. The Argentineans have their players and their team and anything is possible, but obviously it’s normal to favour the Spaniards with Rafa on the team, back on clay. It’s logical.”_

Said Roger Federer. Overwhelming. I never get used to your praises directed at me.

I fall asleep with a smile in my heart.


	3. Part Three

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 28th of NOVEMBER, 2011

I’m practising earlier today, before lunchtime.

My mind is not really into it. I’m waiting for you to arrive, you said you would land around noon so I can’t wait to get back to the hotel and have you in my arms at long last!  
I know, it wasn’t long, but it’s a matter of view. I don’t like to be without you even for a day.

The Argentinians are here, they are going to hit after me, and when I’m hanging at the sideline, drinking some, Juan Mónaco comes to greet me. We hug, exchanging words, and he is pinching my side so I grope his ass in return. Usual teasing, the teams are laughing at us good-heartedly when a deep voice from the entrance cuts the air.  
“In your place I would get my hands off of my man, Pico!”

I turn and freeze. Then blood rushes to my cheeks, my legs get weak, but I still run, toward you, repeating “Roger, Roger, Roger,” like a fool.  
You stand there smiling and let me jump in your arms, you lift me and I kiss your face all over, holding on your neck tight.

I hear everyone snickering behind me, and I realize I’m acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl, but I don’t care. You are hugging me, I can feel your heartbeat on my chest, I can smell you, and that is all that matters! You are here. You are back!

You put me down on my feet and cast a strict look at me. “How are you feeling, Raf?”  
“Everything… everything is good now,” I push my nose to your neck, sniffing the skin there.

We part and grin like idiots, walking to the others hand in hand. You say hello to them and scold Pico with a look.  
“He grabbed my ass,” Pico says and points at me.  
“What? You pinched me first!” My sense of justice is getting hurt.  
“Whatever!” you raise your voice a slight bit. “This…” and you pull me to your side, “here in the Spanish gear, is mine! And you, Argentinian scum, get an own man if you so want!”  
Even Uncle Toni is laughing from the distance.

“You about to finish practice?” you ask me and I nod. “Super!” you say. “I’m starving, let’s go get some lunch!”

Late in the afternoon you are sitting on my bed, writing mails to your parents and sister, who went home to Switzerland from London.

I’m sprawled on the other side, on my front, resting, facing away from you.  
You are tapping the pad with your fingers, softly. Even this you do elegantly. It’s calming, I’m dozing off when you suck a sudden breath in and start to giggle.

I turn and look at you. “¿Què?” I ask, and you show me a photo of me groping Pico’s ass.  
My eyes widen. You are laughing. “You are so gay, Rafa,” you say.  
“Breaking news!” I retort with a grimace. “They crazy or what, to put such a pic on the official Davis Cup site?”  
“Mhhmm, yes,” you snort. “The comment says _’Watch out, Roger!’_ ”  
I bolt up from my laying position to see that but you are having a laughing fit and say you were kidding.  
“There is no such comment, don’t worry! Instead, there is a bunch of shots about our reuniting. Come see!”  
We are looking at pictures of ourselves, hugging, holding each other, kissing and staring adoringly in the other’s eyes.  
“I like it,” I say, looking you in the eyes, and there I see you like it, too.

I don’t think I will stop grinning from now on.

We go out to have dinner at a restaurant in the evening but not before you offer me this time to be spent with my Spaniards. That is nice of you, but I can have the first night only for you. We are breathing in each others’ neck with the team every moment of the day! I will even get bored by their faces and jokes.

Dinner is delicious, I’m having a huge bowl of pasta and I don’t ask the waiter to leave out tomato from my salad, because you love it and I give them to you. You find it the weirdest thing ever that I don’t eat raw tomato. Or cheese. Or ham.

You are having salmon with fried rice and sipping a glass of rosé with it. I wish I could drink!

“So where is the cup, Rog?” I ask and you shake your head.  
“I told you, I sent it back home with my parents. I won’t carry it to here and then to Manacor!”  
I pout. “You can have it there, too, no? Mi casa es tu casa, no?”  
“Didn’t we agree on having your trophies in Manacor and mine in Switzerland?” you warn.  
“Sí,” I sigh. “But only chance the World Tour Finals cup getting in my house, is you bring it!”

You look up from your plate and the fork stops in your hand. “That is not the right attitude! Should I say the only chance for me to have the Davis Cup or the singles Olympic Gold medal, if you give them to me?”  
I frown and mutter “¡Cabrón!”  
You start to giggle, with food in your mouth, and choke on it, drinking some water to wash it down. You smile sweetly and say, “I show you _asshole_ if you want! A bit later. Now I’d like to finish my meal, if you understand!” Your eyes are shining with that grin and I shut up. You are just dangerous like that!

Back in the hotel, you let me take you from behind in the shower and we really didn’t have so much action lately, so I’m completely drained when it’s over. You have to scoop me up, dry my body and drag me to bed.

You pull me close, and you are so warm and I am so happy.

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 29th of NOVEMBER, 2011

Today we hardly see each other.

I have the press conference and practice with the team.

But you say it’s no problem, you can make yourself just as busy, and you do. As late in the afternoon you pick me up at the stadium, you tell me you were driving and looking around and rediscovered the city.

You love Sevilla and I feel proud to be Spanish when you talk enthusiastically about my country.

“Is your home, too, no?” I say and you smile in agreement. Indeed, the Spanish like you to spend time here with me, just as the Swiss like me to do the same there in Switzerland.  
You say, “We are kind of attached to each other’s land, aren’t we?”, right at the moment when I think the exact same.  
“The press asked me about you,” I admit. “I had to tell them you won’t talk about us winning again because that is huge disadvantage for poor Argentina.”  
You burst out in laughter and start to hum along the Shakira song on the radio.

I take a shower and put on comfy clothes in the hotel; I’m going to leave for an evening with the Spaniards. You never protest, it is how it is, we need bonding, just us, Feli, Nando, Ferru and me, the _Armada_ together.

We are playing a golf game on PlayStation when you text me and say you are finally reading my book, my autobiography, and you are already struck at the very first page because you never thought it would begin with our legendary Wimbledon final in 2008, and your name would be there on the first page.  
I giggle at your surprise and write, **'Read on, Roger!'**

Feli is seeing the text, hunching above my shoulder, awing and picks the phone out of my hand. He is tapping furiously and shows me the message before he sends it to you.

**’I will take care of your baby, Fed!’**

Estúpido!

Some minutes later you answer. **’Everyhing for the eyes, Señor Lopez! ;-)’**

Feli groans and says I am no fun since I’m with you. He is just scared shitless of you!

When I arrive back to our room, I find you sleeping on your back, my book still clutched in your hand, opened somewhere at the third chapter. I wake you and pull you under the blanket properly.  
You are so far gone, but you are muttering something that I can’t figure out. We settle down cuddled up and you fall back asleep in a minute, producing your infamous _’sleeping like a log’_ style.

In the last second before dreamland claims me, too, I suddenly understand what you murmured. You called me _’scaredy cat’_ , like my sister called me in the book.

You must have liked it. I’m glad.

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 30th of NOVEMBER, 2011

I wake up alone and find a note beside me in your handwriting.

_’Your book could’ve been completely on me! There is Federer written on every page of it! :-) I go to get you fresh bakery. Love, R.’_

I’m dragging myself out of bed, to the bathroom, to do morning routine, then I wander out, to find you in the kitchen area, spreading Nutella on still warm buns, then pouring orange juice in glasses, and mixing _cola cao_ powder with hot milk in a mug, for me.

“Bon día,” you say in Catalan when I come close. You look at me and ask me to get dressed but I say I’m too lazy and hungry to obey.  
“You just like me flushed,” you state, and I pose a bit for you, only in underwear.  
“You are still that 20 years old hunk I tried so hard not to acknowledge!”  
“But you had to, no?” I wink. “I was irresistible, no?”  
“Irritating, you said?”  
“No no no! You watched me, no? Always. Didn’t wanna but did, no?” I say and coming too close, I push you to the counter.  
You groan and mutter, “Frustrating!”  
“But you wanted to touch, no? You wanna touch the hunk, no?” I go on and you lose your patience and smash the Nutella topped bun that you have in your hand to my lips. I have to open my mouth to bite, or it smears all over my face.

I step backward and you think you won, but I hear you sigh and groan while I’m having my breakfast because my totally unconscious finger licks only make you more desperately horny. I’m aware!

When I’m done, and you are putting away the dishes, I turn you, push you back to the counter for balance, and suck you off. There is nothing more satisfying than hearing your head thudding on the cupboard, and feeling your thighs tremble under my hands.

Before we got together, I would have never ever done this to anybody, I didn’t dare! I’m a shy guy. You bring the animal I let free only on the tennis court out of me.

I have to train today, give interviews, do a radio show live and host tennis clinics with the Armada. You say it’s okay, you can occupy yourself fine again, just like yesterday.

“You come to food shopping later?” I offer. “Is night before first match tomorrow. I cook. But won’t have time to do big shopping tomorrow because there is the draw and press again, sí?”  
“Settled!” you agree. “Give me a call when to pick you up and where!”  
“Is no problem, sí?” I worry. “The public…”  
“At all. Let’s give some romantic grocery shopping to them! Their hero in lover mode,” you giggle.

We kiss and my lips linger. I don’t wanna release you, leave you, wanna get back to bed and make love all day. But it’s not possible.  
“Hey,” you push me a bit away from your body. “I’ll see you very soon, Raf!”  
I’m reluctant but your assuring smile puts me on my way to leave.

The sunset finds us in a mall. I actually wanted to go to a smaller grocery shop that I knew already but you say, if we are out so openly, let’s do it right, let’s mingle with the masses.

Of course you are used to that people in Mallorca never bother us while we are out in public. But this is not Mallorca; here we are making a buzz, walking around holding hands. No, no, it’s not the hand-holding that makes them turn. I giggle at that thought how much people don’t care about that aspect.

It’s just me and you. If they respect and love me as their national athlete, Spanish people LOVE LOVE LOVE you, for your charm, grace and ability to make me happy in my private life.  
Spain loves our romance that bloomed out of the greatest rivalry through the years. The country is buzzing when you are here with me. We have real peace only at home in Manacor.

So now we are stopped in every other steps, to give signs or take photos. Some people are filming us walking and talking. I don’t give an hour and we are news on Spanish television. A bit later also everywhere else in the world.

“Is a bit noisy, no?” I whisper to you.  
“It’s cool,” you say, smiling. “I love to show off that I treat you well.”  
“Hmm, sí! I’m in good hands,” I murmur in your ear and brush my lips to the shell of it.  
Your writing hand slips on a paper you are signing on. You look puzzled.  
“Stop that, Rafa!” you say.  
“No public verbal foreplay, Herr Federer?”  
I know I’m acting cheeky and someone could hear us but I don’t give a damn, I’m enjoying this so much.  
“You will so get it, just wait, Señor Nadal!” You cast a wild look at me and add something probably very naughty in your tongue, perfectly knowing Swiss German always makes me mute.

You are not playing fair. I shouldn’t have voted for you in the fair play competition!

We are making our way through the crowd and soon they start to say to each other they should let us have some privacy now, and with that, we are left alone again, except of the curious looks and the occasional smiles sent in our direction.

We reach the big grocery store finally.  
“You know what?” you ask. “I cook tonight, before you begin to destroy the kitchen with your ritual pre-matchday cooking. So, let’s buy some pine nuts! And cashew and pistachio.”  
“Huh? For what?” I rebel, but you are pulling me toward the nuts section.

In the end we are packed with the usual basic stuff I cook of, and the extras, some nuts, Greek yogurt, safran and cardamom, Basmati rice, such. You chose chicken breasts, too. And cocktail tomato that I won’t ever eat, but you say it’s only for you.

I don’t know what you are going to make but you say it will be delicious, so I trust you.

This is how we work anyway; I cook the standard, grilled fish or pasta, you cook the extra. It’s our balance.  
When we are in the hotel suit, I panic because I didn’t buy olives. But you put a jar of it in front of me on the counter and I feel relieved. You never forget it.  
“On one condition,” you say. “You can eat only half the jar of it at one time!”  
I don’t like you right now and I grimace but don’t argue.

Watching you cook is arousing me to no end. You are doing it with the same grace that I see on the tennis court when you play. Chopping vegetables or chicken into cubes seems the same royal as your tennis.

You let me cook the rice but warn me about the hot pans. That is so not funny but you laugh. You didn’t laugh when once I burnt my fingerprints off during a pre-matchday cooking because I grabbed a hot pan! We were scared shitless. I’m careful since then.

The meal of chicken dipped in yogurt and baked in olive oil, with the rice and fried almond, pine nuts, pistachio and ceshew is indeed sensational. Despite of the chicken looking really disgusting in that yogurt coat!  
You are having tomato salad with mint to it, and we drink white wine.

You are such a gourmet cook!

We are watching a movie after dinner. No, not watching. Its pictures are vibrating on the screen but the sound is muted, and we are kissing and touching in the bed, both of us falling asleep before we could do anything more.

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 1st of DECEMBER, 2011

Draw day!

It’s packed with official events, press duties, all that stuff.

We learn I’m playing first, against Pico Mónaco.

You say you are sure I scared him so much by pinching his ass the other day, that I will beat him easily.  
“You still jealous, no?” I grin and you look at me insulted.

In the afternoon I train again and when it’s done, we are going to the airport to greet my family members who are all arriving today. They came on a smaller plane and you giggle at them filling half of it. I have 54 guests. I had to fight for those plus 4 tickets! Every player gets only 50 and it’s never enough. My uncles are here, with their wives; my aunt with husband, and some of them brought the kids. Plus mother, sister and her boyfriend, grandparents, friends. And my father who is already here, came with me and my team. The whole Clan gathered, as you say.  
You have a particularly special connection to Maribel’s boyfriend because, despite being as straight as an arrow, he has such an enermous crush on you. The whole family tease you both about it.

Maribel enjoys this good relationship between you two because as she says, while you guys are chatting for long, she can have me for herself alone.

At night I cook pasta for us and the family members who came. Grandparents and little cousins went to bed early.  
You are talking to my uncle, Miguel Ángel, who was a professional footballer at Barcelona, about the Arsenal match we attended in London, while my mother and Maribel are fussing around me and deliberately not letting me do my cooking in peace.

And Maribel’s boy is staring at you with adoring eyes! If I didn’t like him so much, I’d really punch him in the face!  
For that two or three hours I’m not thinking about the upcoming match, and neither for that one hour while we are having hot sex. You say the day with so many people around and no intimate touching made you really hungry for me.

I say I’m hungry for you since the first day we had met. I win! And it’s not even much of an exaggeration.

You are sleeping peacefully again, resting your hand on my stomach. I’m watching you breathing steadily. The kick off tomorrow is creeping back in my mind and I can’t wait to have you there with my whole family to see me!

I realize I wouldn’t be happy if you weren’t here! Sí, they are my life, my family means everything to me. But you are the man who is going to be my family one day.

Or you already are.

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 2nd of DECEMBER, 2011

I win my match and I play on top of my game!

People say, _’Rafa is back!’_ Though I didn’t realize I had been missing!

The press pisses me off so much, they ask if I was dead last week, how can I be this alive and fit today!? And they are the Spanish! ¿Qué carajo?

I remember four things sharply. One, my Spanish team beside the court roaring for me. Two, my family filling up 8 boxes. Three, feeling bad for defeating my friend, Pico.

And four, you.

You cheering for me, first only held-back, later I could even hear your voice out of 20 thousends! You were shown on the giant screens more times than us who played! Not that I mind!

We meet in the locker room short after it. The whole Armada with coaches are there but they let you through to me and we embrace and you say you are so proud of me and I did so well.

The others pile out slowly, the next match between Ferrer and Argentinian Del Potro is coming soon. We stay almost alone for a while and grin and kiss and hug and you say I have to take a quick shower before I come out to the court again. I will.

I do press, shower and dress warmer, stuffing some food in my mouth meanwhile.  
When I go out, the match is under progress.  
You come to be closer to our bench so I can just turn and talk to you anytime.

Again, the cameras love us. In the short breaks and after points, they are either on me or you or both. You joke, saying now people indeed get their romance report!

There is no other thing like Davis Cup. Because a whole national team has a bench beside the court and they are your cheerleaders. We Spanish are really good at this! Jumping on chairs, Nando Verdasco conducting the Spanish crowd, waving wide with his arms, a Spanish flag hung around his neck.

Even my uncle Toni can’t just sit there and make his usual pokerface!

I am really, really nervous for Ferrer. I’m still pissed at journalists, too, and I can’t let it go yet, so it’s showing on my face.

I can feel you being there for me mentally, always watching me, when I turn, meeting my eyes with your calm looks. It makes me a bit more relaxed.

The match is even worse than your World Tour Final horror! It’s reaching the 5th set and we all jump from the bench after every point made, won or lost, in unison. 

I don’t know if it’s simply Ferru’s incredible game and strength, or our encouraging roaring adds some to it, or it’s really the audience’s force, but he wins it. Spain is up to 2-0 in the final!

We can breathe now, it’s over for today.

We are relieved, hugging David, even you come to congratulate him, and the photos of you greeting my national team spread all around the world fast. Later we are surprised a bit that people never make a bad comment on Roger Federer from Switzerland cheering for Spain. It’s reassuring to know we are accepted like this, as a couple, and nobody bats an eye.

In the locker room I’m alone with my team, you go off with family, back to the hotel.

After all my duties are done, we all go for dinner at a restaurant where we have to book the whole gallery of it, we are so many.

It’s very late, my match started at 2 pm and Ferru’s killer one ended at 10.

I’m drained by stress but cheery.

I look around, rest my eyes on every single person at the tables, smile at grandmother and grandfather, still for a moment when we look each other in the eye with Dad, and finally, wink at my little cousins who are seated at our table. You suggested the kids sitting with me and you, as they never seemed wanting to leave my side. You love children and feel at ease in their company as much as I do.

It’s a relaxing time. Knowing I don’t have to play tomorrow, because it’s the doubles’ day, does very good to my spirit so I open up for the kids’ nagging and we jokingly tell them again how we got together in 2009, after that certain Australian Open where I beat you at your most important final.

We wouldn’t like to talk about that match if the outcome wasn’t our nerves getting the best of us and finally giving in to that first kiss.

We came close to it many times before that moment but always resisted. Either you were not sure, or I was too shy, or somebody entered the place we were in and ended our time spent in solitude.

The kids cherish this story as much as we do.

It happened that you had that crucial final to win your 14th Grand Slam, to equal another great champion, Pete Sampras’ record of 14. Everything was set to that scenario; the organizers invited the tennis Legends to see you celebrate that precious moment.

But I beat you. I’m still not happy about that. I didn’t want anything more than you to win that final, but when we compete, there is no place for giving it up for me and if I am able to defeat you, I do.

And you broke down during your runner-up speech, stopped talking and started to cry. They called me on the podium then to talk first but instead of, I went straight to you and hugged you. Only after that I spoke and I spoke of your greatness, and when I finished, I rushed back to you and held you again, one arm around your shoulder, the other clutching the trophy; and as you still recall, I whispered such nonsense in your ears you had to grin through your falling tears. I always say it was only my bad English.

My cousins always listen delighted and solemn when we are talking about this. Even the most noisy ones! I like to think you cast a spell on them. It’s a reassuring thought, because in this case at least I am not the only one who feels so desperately crazy for you and under your magical effects.

So to cut it short, we tell them again, at least the hundredth times, that we were left alone for a minute or two in the locker room after the ceremony, and you sat on the bench and I came to you and we measured each other cautiously, I sat down beside you but didn’t dare to come closer, when you looked at me, held my gaze and said, “I want to kiss you since Wimbledon final, last year, Rafael.”

And when I didn’t leap out of my seat and flee, you did just that, kissed me.

I kissed back. We actually did more than kissing but we leave out that detail for the kids’ sake. It’s all a gentle romance in their eyes and we wouldn’t want it in any other way.

And so it was sealed in that moment, it was just that simple, a silent agreement that when we leave this locker room, we leave as a couple, finally, come any obstacles in our way.

But of course when we bring up Wimbledon 2008, the children start to beg us to tell that other part of the story, too.  
We say a definite _’no’_ this time. They groan and whine but tuck in the ice creams they got and that takes the spotlight off of our relationship stories for now.

However when we are back in our room, in bed, nestling and watching a movie about some diamond robbery, we again talk of that day and night in Wimbledon.

I won my first title there, kept you from winning your 6th in a row.

“Yes, my destiny is having you to always set me back from reaching very important peaks in my career!” you say, but you are not serious, you are smiling.

When you are already sleeping sound, I’m still remembering that evening.

Winning Wimbledon, for years, was a seemingly unreachable but very much desired task in my life. It was the greatest match I have ever played and won, and even more valuable because it was against the best. You.

My happiness that day, in the settling sun at the Centre Court, was unlimited.

Still, what I remember the most sharply, is that when we were standing in the flashlights of the cameras, holding our trophies, you were so close, our shoulders touched. Then you put your palm on my neck, right palm to the left side of my neck, keeping it there, holding my head in your gentle touch, for short, but for so long that time stopped for me, the crowd’s noises weakened, like when you turn the volume down on the TV, the world stilled, and there was nothing more than you and me and your fingers on my skin, on my hair.

The next moment you touched my shoulder, too, I was pretty much breathless by then, and you walked away. I had to have my photos taken with the golden cup.

The signs of the outside world slowly came back to me, but what I felt the strongest was you, standing somewhere behind me, watching me, staring, burning a hot spot in my back.

In that moment, all I wanted was to leave the people behind, go to you and hug you.  
I felt something changing. There was a rush, a not so innocent rush in my body.  
It was the first time I couldn’t control my feelings toward you, my long-time tamed crush defeated me, and I couldn’t pretend I don’t want you like that. I wanted you as a man, as a lover.

I took a careful glance sideway, at you, now sitting in your chair, patiently waiting for me and the photographers finishing our jobs. You were so striking in your whitish knitted cardigan, something only you would wear at a tennis court nowadays, even if it was the holy lawn of the most traditional tournament, Wimbledon.

And I saw you smile at me briefly.

Not with the tennis mate’s smile but with the knowing one of the man.

I knew that night, I wanted you, and you wanted me back, and that’s how I won much more than only my first Wimbledon title that day.

Little did I know that we would fight for another long run of months, from July 6th 2008 to February 1st 2009, to really get one another! The longest seven months in my life.

I scoot closer to your body, the memories making me warm all over and lull me to peaceful sleep in your wrap.


	4. Part Four

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 3rd of DECEMBER, 2011

Feli and Fer lose their doubles.

During the battle first I’m all cheers, supporting them loud, but as time passes and they are obviously losing, the thought of that I have to go out on court again tomorrow and win another one, comes to me in unpleasant rushes.

We are up to 2:1 against Argentina after the doubles. This means, as one team has to win 3 of the rubbers to claim the cup, that it’s on me again. And if I lose, Ferru plays, too, on the third day of the tie.

This doesn’t lift my spirit.

I train after the doubles and we are spending a quiet night together, only the two of us.

I cook again, as always before a matchday, and we are not talking about the upcoming match at all. You understand I don’t want to.

Instead I break the news to you that we can’t immediately leave for Mallorca when this is over because I have business duties in Madrid, and probably also have to attend some official celebration there, in case we win.  
“Thought so,” you admit. You don’t seem bothered by it though. “It’s cool, Raf! Don’t you worry! I don’t care if we are going to the North Pole or to the Equator as long as I’m with you. You are my vacation.”

I smile bright.

“And don’t forget whenever we are flying on my private jet, I can have sex with you above the clouds!” you add and I can’t swallow my bursting laughter.

Everything is all right. And will be.

### SEVILLA, SPAIN, 4th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m thinking silly things today.

They entered my thoughts when I woke up and lay beside you.

If there are other worlds out there, do they also play tennis? And do they have a player like you? If they have, do they also think you came from another planet? Do they say, _’Maybe he is from planet Earth’_?

One thing is sure, in an alternative world, you remain #1. I don’t think they need another me in other worlds. I am no special. Not like you.

But if by the weird game of Fate, I exist in the other worlds, too, I hope we love each other in every one of them!

I realize these thoughts came from seeing the movie _Contact_ on TV last night! Well, some of it.

I don’t feel very well when we walk out on court, but the 24,000 people gathered give me some confidence.  
I really like the crowd; the Spanish are roaring, and the Argentinians are something extraspecial. They feel themselves at one of the matches of their national football team. Dancing, singing all the way.

I look up to you many times during the sets. You look as assured as it can get, like always, sure of my game, believing in me and your own calmness that you can plant in me by only a mere blink of yours.

I am playing well. But Del Potro is playing even better.

Still, I’m leading, up to 2-1 after three sets. I lost the first but won the next two.  
We are in the 4th set and I break his serve, seeing him losing his speed. He is getting tired. I almost see him breathing through his ears!

But then something happens.

The Argentinian fans start a long cheering session, singing, shouting rhyms, and the game is stopped. Here you can’t tell them to keep quiet, would you be the strictest of chair umpires, they won’t have any of it, this is the only chance for Juan Martin to gain some strength back.

And he does.

Everything begins to go his way, whatever he hits is in and I can’t do a thing to fight back. He comes back in the match and losing this 4th set is a possibility for me now, and a 5th one’s sight is on the horizon.

We are even at 6-6. The tie break is coming.

I can feel just about everyone on my side have already chewed off every nail.

Nando has never been this loudly screaming and Feli’s face has never been this pale before!

I can’t allow a 5th set! I can’t, or there might be death in the arena! And I want that Davis Cup so much. About time to have it!

So I show no mercy in the tie break, I win it at 0, love, not giving a single chance to Juan Martin to make even one point against my 7.

It’s all a blur from that moment when I’m lying on the clay, on my back and the team run in, jumping, hugging.  
I leave them at the price of hard work because they hardly wanna release me.  
But I’m going to meet Del Potro at the net and comfort him. He starts to cry when I hug him, it’s heartwrenching but this is how it is, it’s tennis, you lose the game on the most important points, sometimes even if you played so good. And he played good.

Then I go to the Argentinian bench and shake hands and hug every one of them, especially Pico. I still feel sorry to beat him, these things never change.

Next is my family but I can’t climb over the higher fences so some of my little cousins come down for me, I embrace them and in my peripherical sight, I notice you standing there, close but not quite enough, patiently waiting for your turn when you can have me for yourself a bit.

As it happens and we come together, holding on tight, all the cameras turn and we are in a shower of clicks and the audience is screaming delightedly.

You don’t say a word, I understand everything from this one hug. You smell happy!

We are standing on the podium soon, listening to the the anthem, with the golden medals in our necks, the smaller copies of the cup already resting at our feet.

When it’s over, King Juan Carlos himself comes to us and hands the cup to Albert, our capitán and we all touch it, hold it, while changing some words with the King.

Confetti falling, our usual Davis Cup hymn blasting and we are carrying the cup around the court, showing it to everybody. The team let me walk in front, I don’t really like it but they always do this to me and today I feel it a bit more truthful because for the first time it’s me who finished the fight, who played the last match, the winning one.  
Back in the locker room it’s a mess.

We are singing our song again, but the others sing _’Rafa’_ instead of _’Sevilla’_ and it’s really fluttering but I so don’t like to be in such spotlight.

I see you next time when the crazy subsided a bit and we are going to eat with the team. Only the team, because my family is really not that much of a celebrating bunch. We always took the success very quietly. Okay, I won, now what’s next?

The team is completely another case though. After dinner we attend the celebratory party at a club, with fans, supporters.

I’m drinking. Probably too much, way too much, testing my capacity. But it’s so good and I’m light and dancing to every song and they play my favourites.

You let me do how I feel like doing. Except I can’t convince you to dance! When I try to pull you up to the dance podium and fail, Nando comes to me and says I look like a wild guy and you look like an aristocrat and we can’t have that now.

I want to ask him what the heck he means but he is off, and at your side suddenly, grabbing some drink from the bar counter and pushing it in your hand.

From that moment he spends his time with you, deliberately getting you drunk. I only hope we can go home somehow and we won’t do something really stupid beforehand!

Nando’s success is obvious, you can’t stand straight on your feet anymore, and you let yourself be manipulated by me. Sure there will be tons of footage about us jumping and dancing and singing on YouTube. I couldn’t care less!

You are a beautiful drunk. You never lose a certain pose, never lose your grace. But you give in to alcohol and we all party like teenagers till dawn. Half of the guests had already left the club when we still dance and request songs.

I start to get very tired and you say if you move once more or drink one more sip, you will throw up. So we go out to the chill room and refresh ourselves. It feels really good, my skin cooling off. I’m watching you splash some water on your face and your hair gets wet. You are glowing in the lights and I come close to you, push into your back, hold you from behind and we are watching each other in the mirror.

I want you. So much.

“Bed?” you question, and I nod.

We say bye to the guys and leave for the hotel by cab.

You tear my shirt off at the second we get the door closed behind us and minutes later I’m lying beneath you and you are taking me with such care I want to cry.

“Just the alcohol,” you mutter and whatever it is, I had never felt you sliding inside of me so light and yet forceful.  
I want to remember this. I’m afraid I won’t!

You feel my mental discomfort and stop. “Raf,” you say and try to turn my head toward you. “Rafa!”  
I look at you.  
“Don’t be silly,” you whisper. “It’s a happy moment!”  
I nod. It is. I know that. I hate to become so emotional when I’m drunk.

You start to move in me again, in such a way that I’m completely blown, I forget everything, no matter if I remember this later or not because it’s so good, too good right now, and it is now, in the present, and I’m trashing about and moaning and hear you chanting _’Rafa, Rafa’_ with your every thrust and every world is falling apart, only our world that we built together stands proud, and tomorrow doesn’t exist.

### MADRID, SPAIN, 5th of DECEMBER, 2011

We feel surprisingly good in the morning! I can hardly believe it, after such a night drained in alcohol. And I didn’t forget a second of all we did and had!

We fly to Madrid, I have to take part of Nike’s new headquarters’ opening there, along with other Spanish athletes.  
During the flight we are arguing because I never told you I played my last Davis Cup match with an injectioned left knee. You can’t stand when truth is held back from you and get royally pissed off at me.

So much that I get irritated by your constant lecturing and tell you to shut the fuck up.

You perfectly know if you are pissed off, I get pissed off, too. I always took on other’s mood, it’s a terrible thing, but I can’t help it, it’s probably in my DNA.

As much as health is coded in your DNA! When I tell you this, it makes you even more angry and you say I can’t curse you just because you were born this way.

But I’m kind of hurt by now, not really by a certain thing you said, just by all this stupid fight, so I turn my back to you and sink into silence. I don’t get why you can’t understand that between the two of us I am not a whiny guy when it comes to injuries or pain. I might tell about it to everybody and their grandma carelessly in a press conference but in this case I only wanted you not to worry! I didn’t want a fuss made around it.

We soon arrive at the Madrid airport and when we leave the board, we are still walking stiff beside one another.

Right before we enter the store, I get a call, and seeing the huge grin on my face, you also start to smile and bump your shoulder to mine. You don’t get much of what is being said but it has to be something very good.

Indeed, it’s an official call from none other than Real Madrid’s president, Florentino Pérez. He congratulates me and invites me, along with the Armada to do the kick off at the upcoming _El Clásico_ , on Saturday.

I barely find the words to thank him. I tell you all after we hung up and you smile at me so honest and ask if you can come, too. I say I wouldn’t go without you, and we laugh because we know I would, but that is not the point now.

“I want make up sex,” you declare and also murmur something about how stupidly we spent the flight arguing, instead of fucking.

Late at night we are out to have dinner and meet Feli and Nando, who are also in Madrid, at a club for a short while. We have some drinks but nothing like last night. We are all quite under the influence of the celebratory party, still, so we only sit and talk at a quieter part of the place. No dancing. You say you are particularly grateful for the calm.

“So what now?” you ask me when we are lying in bed. “We stay here until Saturday?”

I get flushed. I haven’t figured it out yet how to break it to you, but I decided not having a proper vacation. Only some short stop at Christmas. The time is too short, we already have a tournament from the 29th, and I need every single day to prepare to my next season.

I’m sure you are going to be mad at me again. Seems it’s one of those days when I can’t do good. I sigh and whatever is coming, this is the time to speak.  
“I uhm… I thought, let’s go home in the morning!”  
“Manacor?” you ask.  
I nod.  
“You are so up to something, Rafa!” You see right through me, be damned!  
I feel so embarrassed under your scrutinizing look.  
“Come on, out with it! Can’t be that bad,” you urge me.  
I pluck up the courage. “I go back to train from tomorrow. No break.”

Your mouth falls open a slight bit and you utter only an ’Oh!’  
“You think is bad for me?”  
You shake your head. “I can see your point. Though you already had four weeks of practice in advance, don’t forget! Whatever you decide, I support you. But I would have liked you to take at least this week off.”

You slide close and cradle me in your arms. “Don’t ever think I feel neglected! I know that’s your problem!”  
I sigh. I’m happy it’s over and I told you.

“Maybe I come and hit with you some,” you offer and when I look in your eyes, I see the same shine there that I feel in my heart.  
“Promise?” I ask.  
“Promise!” you say and you seemingly know you have just made me the most happiest man in the world.  
There is no more precious thing for me than having you as my partner in training!

I settle down in your embrace. “We can work on your lousy backhand, Mr I-am-extremely-talented!” I wink at you.

“Oh, go fuck yourself!” you say, very uncharacteristically of you. “You were really insufferable today, so better we get some sleep and maybe with the new day coming, I can have my lovely Rafa back!”

I giggle. “The one who looks at you only in awe?”  
“Yes, that one. Who worships me!”

We will see.

### MANACOR, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 6th of DECEMBER, 2011

It’s funny, because it is the _Constitution Day_ in Spain, a national holiday, and as the 8th is also a holiday, religious though, the _Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary_ , people get a 5 days weekend, so businesses and schools are closed and everybody is out and about, starting the preparation for Christmas. Everybody, except a tennis player. I still have to start training.

Yet this is as close to vacation as it gets this time.

We are only the two of us, on my boat, out on the sea, far from the bustle of kids and parents being out in the cities, playing around and sitting in cafés. Of course cafés and restaurants won’t close, after all we have to _’celebrate’_ somewhere, no?

So here, is everything peaceful.

You have just been swimming and I’m really willing to do fishing, but can’t take my eyes off of you, lying on the deck, the sun making your wet body glistening.

Home, this is it.

I have two trainings per day from now on but I intend to use all the time left to spend with you and only you. Even some practice sessions, as you promised, and for what Uncle Toni is not happy at all but I don’t care. I tell him to use it to know more about your game and that occupies him for a while. Not that he doesn’t know your game, pretty thoroughly. He just doesn’t like that we get playful when we train together. Training is not supposed to be joyful, that’s what he says.

But I chase away these thoughts now because all I want to do is go to you, get you rid of that flowered swimming shorts of yours and take your cock in my mouth to make you hard.

And I do just that.

In no time I’m taking you in me, deep, and I ride you slowly.

Soon we are lying on our back, after I cleaned us up. Either of us bothers to put the shorts back on and I hope there are really no paparazzi around because I don’t want this sacred moment get plastered in papers. We had been caught naked once before and it was only our backside to be seen, but it was equally embarrassing.

I don’t want to share the sight of my front with anybody else but you.  
More important, I don’t want to share the sight of _your_ front!

“What’s going on in that mind of yours, Raf?” you ask and I figure you have been watching me for a while.  
“Nada!” I lie.

You begin to laugh. “Whatever fantasy you have, you can tell me, you know!”  
I shake my head. “No es una fantasía.”  
You believe me. “But you had some, right? Back then, when this didn’t seem possible.” You move your hand around, gesturing you mean all this what we have now.  
“Hm. For long I had only tennis fantasy, sí? To play doubles with you. Still is my fantasy. In competition, you see. But is no possibility, sí?”  
“Because your Spaniards would take your head in a bloody manner?” you laugh. You know it’s not true, it’s not the reason, this is more about you and your choices, but you like to make up different excuses for not considering it seriously. I don’t mind – one day it has to come true, we walking on court as doubles partners. I believe.

I’m staring at you for long, then say, “This my fantasy,” and you can feel a switch in the mood, and look back at me seriously. Then you say, “Come here,” and reach out and pull my head closer to you, touching your lips to mine.

And we are kissing there on the deck, under the Mallorcan sun and I know I want this, it’s all I want, and I could beg to anybody who cares to listen for it to never change!


	5. Part Five

### MANACOR, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 7th of DECEMBER, 2011

Having so much fun today!

I have some journalists coming over, visiting at the practice in the morning, so you stay at home, not wanting to cause a fuss in the media. So the first training goes plain. Actually boring.

We meet after and go to Porto Cristo for lunch and to the beach again. The air and the sea are both 19 °C, warm enough to feel pleasant.

We are laying in the sun, talking about nothing and arguing on which Champions League match we should watch tonight. You kind of win this, because for Real Madrid there is no pressure anymore, they are already through and in the last 16. But your team, Basel, can make history. So I will allow you to switch channels and you say that is just so generous of me.

You are all jokes anyway. You say we should leave the coin toss before the matches, in tennis that is, and use Rock-Paper-Scissors instead, to decide who serves first.  
“Sí! You no always win the toss then!” I say but you claim you are a perfect Rock-Paper-Scissors player, so I shouldn’t be so cocky.

¿Qué? Who said anything about cock?

We are back in training in the afternoon but only making Uncle Toni groan with frustration because we are just entertaining one another, aiming balls at the other’s body in such angles that it’s impossible to return them most of the times. And then we laugh.

Toni calls you over and I hear when he says, “You be thankful that Paul, your coach, doesn’t see this circus attraction you disguise as practice!”

You start to protest, saying you are not practising in real, but Toni cuts you off and after this he only whispers to you and I understand that it’s not for my ears anymore. Indeed when you come back to the court, you say, “Rafa, let’s play a match!”  
“No no no!” I protest. “Let’s just practise, no?” I look at Uncle Toni but he is smiling mischievously. I’m in trouble.  
“We are playing a match, Raf!” you declare. “A best-of-three one, right?”

I realize I’m out-voted. Toni probably threatened you if you don’t play hard on me, he will kick you out of my training session. I don’t want that, so all I can do is bow my head and obey.

So we are playing a match and I’m grateful for you two taking it serious and making me fight. This was the only way to force me not to joke around anymore, because everybody knows I want to win every match and every game I play, be it tennis or PlayStation or cards.

I’m learning a lesson, too. You are beating me again, and making me so annoyed and frustrated and later angry. On top of that, Toni is shouting orders to you and you try to do the shot he wants, especially serves, so I practically know what you are going to hit in advance, but still, you are playing so fast I can’t follow and I’m losing. Hard court is always on your side. Why do we even do this on hard court anyway?

I hate you at this moment.  
You win 6-4, 7-5.  
Toni looks pleased, though he says, “You did well only one thing, Rafael. It wasn’t 6-0!”

That is such a low blow – bringing up my sorry performance at the World Tour Finals against you –, that even you hiss. But it’s okay, this is Toni, he humiliates me on daily basis and I’m used to it. I also understand this was the goal from the first second. Because otherwise we would have been playing around instead of practising.

I’m furiously soaping myself under the shower when you step behind me and put your hands on my hips.

“Don’t be mad!” you say and start kissing my neck and take the soap from me, covering my belly and lower area in foam.

I sigh deep and lean back into your chest when you take my bits in your hands, my cock in one and my balls in the other, and start to stroke and roll them.

“It’s like how I do it to myself,” you whisper and it’s so sexy my knees almost give up supporting me.  
“I want… want to finish every training like this,” I mutter.  
“I know,” you sigh and I turn my head on your shoulder and we kiss and when I feel your tongue touch mine, I shudder and come in your hands.

Then you turn me and push me to the tiles and stroke yourself, too, until you come on my belly.  
We kiss and wash each other clean.  
I already want you again.  
“I want to fuck you,” I say and you chuckle.  
“Tonight. If Basel wins!”  
I scrunch my nose. It’s not a fair offer because they play against Manchester United, so no doubt which the better team is.

You are having some beers during the matches, I occasionally sip from your bottle, too.

Madrid wins 3:0, so in the end we are only watching Basel vs ManU because it’s very exciting. And Basel wins, getting in to the final 16, kicking ManU out of the Champs League, and we have a very active, full-of-sex night.

Fate loves me, no?

### PORTO CRISTO, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 8th of DECEMBER, 2011

Did you know my sister collects everything you have ever said about me?

When a year ends, she prints them out and makes an album of them, and it’s usually under the Christmas tree among my presents. Then when we are sitting around and having some time only for us, she wants to read them out loud, and I’m stupid enough to let her, and she is all giggles and awing, and I’m all blushes.

The weird is, that she had been doing this since the very first year we met on court. So now I will get the 8th of these year-end quote collections since 2004! Fabulós, no?

Maribel likes to entertain herself with believing that she had always known we were meant to be. Even in that first year, when she was only 13! Even when we both had steady girlfriends! She is a witch!

We train twice today, together, taking it all dead serious, for the great satisfaction of Toni.

In the early evening I drive you to Porto Cristo again. We settle down in my holiday villa and soon I take you to a famous sight of the town, the _Cuevas del Drach_ , which means the _Caves of the Dragon_.  
We arrive after the open hours and we get an exclusive guiding around in a lit boat, on the lake and streams hidden between the heavy rocks of the caves.

It’s really beautiful and relaxing, and our guide talks in English so you can understand.

I love to watch you listening so intently.

The tour doesn’t last too long and we thank the guy for having us after business hours and you say you enjoyed it so much and you want to come back again, possibly also hear the classical music concert they offer. Either of us is particularly fond of classical music – except of some favourite pieces –, I like all the Spanish songs and musicals most and you are more of a rocker, or listen to everything randomly, but these shows last about 10 minutes and we can certainly do that much, if not more. The cave’s acoustics must lend really awesome sound to a concert.

We leave the place and drive on to Palma for the David Bisbal show. He is a really nice guy, I like him a lot and always try to see him sing when he comes to the place I stay.

You say you liked the show and you pose for a photo with David when we meet him after.

I lend you the wheel for the home ride because your manliness just doesn’t like to be driven around at all, no matter if it’s my car we are in. And I still think you do not trust my driving skills.

“So, do you know this singer guy well?” you ask nonchalantly while we are driving home in the night lights of the island.  
I’m alarmed. “You no jealous again?”  
“No,” you say and I see you want to continue but bit your tongue and repeat only _’No’_ again.

I just grin wide and turn my head to the window to watch the landscape running fast. I love to travel across my island, there is no more soothing feeling for me than this. Except of your presence by my side. None can top these two.

Settled down in my bedroom, you say you wanna show me something and bring an album to spread over the bed. It’s the design of the new house that is being built for us, in the Swiss Alps.

There are coloured drawings of it now and suddenly it comes alive. When I first saw the plans, they were all so dry and black and white and official that it was hard to really imagine how the house would look finished.

“I like,” I say and you don’t seem totally convinced.  
“You do?”  
I nod. “A lot.”

It’s magnificent and carefully thought out. I fancy the colours, all brick reddish and brown, huge green area surrounding it, and not one but two tennis courts. Even those match the house’s shades, one green, one red. A lawn and a clay one.

“Why you need clay court, Rog?”  
You look at me with a funny expression. “Why we need clay, Rafa?”  
“Is for me? Oh!” I don’t sound very intelligent.  
You laugh. “I didn’t ask you about it because it’s a surprise. I thought it would be… uhm, nice.” You shrug.  
It is nice! More than that. I never thought about adding a grass court to my beach house and I’m touched by your caring.  
“We can change it, you know!” you offer but I shake my head wildly.  
“Don’t dare!”  
“So it’s okay?”  
“Perfect! You need it improve your game!” I joke.  
“In that case grass is for you to improve yours!” you retort. “Only two Wimbledon championships are entirely pathetic, Rafa!”  
“Huh? ¿Por qué? You have one… _UNO_ Roland Garros title and you beat Söderling, not me! I am King of Clay! You beat me, you will have it right, no?”  
You turn a lovely shade of red. “Oh uhm… can we just ignore that? So embarrassing to put it like that, man!”  
“It is? You can say my only US Open cup is shit too because I did no beat you!” I grin.  
“Well I thought we were joking, not analyzing!” you say. “Whatever I have, are all sure well deserved!” you are huffing.  
I let out a grunt. “You and your ego deserved, no?”  
We burst out of laughter.

Calming down, we go on to take a look at the enterior design of the building. There are tons of rooms, I can’t follow, but on the 3rd floor, that is supposed to be our living area, I see the master bedroom, and another labeled as _’Rafa’s room’_ and one more as _’Roger’s room’_.

I’m confused. “Roger, why I need another room?”  
“Just in case,” you smile. “When you are too stubborn to make a compromise, and you get pissy and decide to not sleep with me in the master bedroom!”  
“¿Estás bromeando? You kidding me?”  
“No, I think of everything!” you grin.  
“Then why you need another bedroom, too?”  
You sigh. “Because I think, if you don’t sleep with me in our room, I won’t be up to it either. It’s shitty when you are not in our bed, Rafa. So I would feel better sleeping at uhm… a neutral place than missing you from our shared one.”

I just can’t believe you sometimes. I scoot close and throw my arms around your neck and kiss your lips. You are surprised, and you like to be surprised like this, and you moan into my mouth when you open up yours to me. We are kissing and licking and biting wild and I push you back into the mattress, climbing on top of you.

Only boxers separate our bodies and I tug on yours and you tug on mine. None getting lower than our ass in the lying position, but we don’t care, no matter, just let us touch, skin on skin, and rub on each other!

We kiss hungrily and I’m so going to come only by this, like a teen who lacks experience and every move is so new to him.

But you force me to stop. “Just… slow down!” you groan and when I do, you are looking me in the eyes. I’m sure you see into my soul.  
“Sehr hübsch,” you say, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I want to take you from behind!”  
I shake like a leaf blown by wind everytime you are so blunt and feel the need to just obey. I turn without a word, getting rid of my boxers first.  
“On your side…” you instruct me.

I do as you say and you are kissing my back, from the neck downward to my ass. You stop there, and I feel your finger smearing lube on me. I don’t know when you got it. You push your index finger in me, not stopping, you go as deep as it can and twist it, pressing on my spot. Making me shudder violently and utter some keening sounds.  
I just wanna do something, anything as good as you do to me in the moment.  
I reach back and say, “Give some!”  
You understand, and put lube on my palm.

I turn a bit, just to be in proper distance to catch your cock and stroke it. Your finger stills inside of me and you are pressing your forehead to my back and breathe hard and moan _’Rafa’_.  
“¡Entrar en mí!” I ask and you know it means _’get in me’_ , and I had enough of preparation, even if you won’t really fit comfortably this way. But you also know when I’m speaking Spanish, I’m very much gone and you won’t hurt me.

You take my hand that is stroking you and direct it to my own erection.

You breathe in my neck when you enter me; sliding in is a bit difficult but we manage and you are settling down close to me, with your whole body. We are on our right sides and one of your hands is deep in my hair, pulling, the other is holding my neck, at my throat.

I turn my head and you are kissing me. I’m overloaded by sensations, you start to move in me and your cock rubs on my spot with every long thrust. You are doing it agonizingly slow and it’s aching pleasantly.  
I kind of whine and it’s weird, I can hear myself making these noises but I can’t stop.

You are moaning while sucking on my tongue and the vibration feels like your mouth was on my cock. I feel you everywhere on me and in me and you have me in a love-lock. I can’t move, you are controlling every cell of our bodies.

I feel your hair on your chest getting damp by sweat and sticking to my back.

Your thrusts get faster but not less long and deep, scraping on my prostate, and there it comes, you begin to murmur in Schweizerdeutsch. I don’t get a word of it, you are probably not even coherent, but it’s the sexiest thing in the world for me.

I lose it, my body stiffens in your hold and I come in my own hand without really stroking myself.  
My inner muscles clamp hard on your cock and you make a painful sound when you can’t move anymore but when I feel them loosening a bit, I also feel you come deep inside. It’s warm, really a creepy feeling sometimes, but so good.

We both lose mind a bit and when we move next, we notice that your teeth are in my shoulder. I start to feel the pain.

You carefully remove them and say sorry. I look back at you, your expression seems horrified.  
“Is okay,” I mutter. “Blood?”  
You nod. “Think we have to bandage that, Raf.”  
I don’t know why but it makes me laugh.  
You grunt when I start to. “Let me pull out before you damage my dick!”  
“But is comfy, no?” I wiggle.  
“Absolutely not!” you say, but you smile so it could mean the opposite, too. Anyway, I let you go.

The bed is a mess and we kicked off the design album and some lube is squeezed out on the sheets; apparently you threw the tube aside uncapped.  
“Great. We need a shower and need to change the sheets,” you state and we do just that.

In the bathroom we are standing under the shower, water raining down on us and you attempt to wash me inside-out. When you touch my ass and feel your seed leaking out, you groan like a predator, push me into the tiles, lift one leg and push two fingers in me.

You are hard again, and now I am, too. I keep my leg supported around your hip and you keep fucking me with your fingers. I get hold on our cocks and jerk them to your rhythm.

You are staring deep in my eyes when we both come at the same time and I can’t look away.

We are giggling after it.  
“You stop being sexy now because I’m too old for this much!” you warn me.  
“Next time I do the hard work, no?”

We wash and dry each other, we are satiated enough not to get excited again.  
Then you patch my shoulder. “You better don’t show off half naked for a while!” you say.  
I smile. “You just did it so people no see my nice body, no?”  
“Nice indeed.”  
God, I love your smile! And it seems there is this special one only for me. I never see it aimed at anybody else. Then again, people say I also light up when I see you.

When we are in bed, I wonder how I can get used to not being with you again.

I dread Sunday when you are going to leave for Dubai to start your own preparation to 2012. It’s too soon!  
I want to stop time today to live this happy moment forever.

### PORTO CRISTO, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 9th of DECEMBER, 2011

You teach me in the morning what the expression of _’with mistletoe in hand’_ actually means. I’m embarrassed as Hell. I declared many times how I _’grew fond of you’_ through the years and now a journalist guy said this mistletoe thing about me and I had no idea why you laughed at it when we read it!

So I learned it’s like I’m hanging around (with mistletoe in my hand, yes), and hoping for stealing a kiss from you. Which is true, very much, but I hate that they must make a joke out of it.

You say it’s just for fun and I shouldn’t take them seriously. You are right of course. And you also say I have to remember it’s always you who gives me the intense lovesick puppy eyes and can’t keep his hands off of me because I have you wrapped around my pinky once and for all. Okay, this makes me laugh, too.  
“I give you every kiss in the world free anyway,” you add. “You don’t need to wait around!”  
And with this I’m back to blushing.

We play golf between my two practice sessions. Finally something I’m beating you in! Because when in training we play a set, you win again. I can’t even…! So I don’t get mad this time and it only makes me want you so much. I think the mere reason of not getting hard whenever I see you play is that I’m so totally into tennis. Otherwise I couldn’t even go and watch you in public!

It doesn’t help my hard-on that you look unbelievably good in golf wear.

I stare, and you notice and smile back at me seductively, but all this distraction isn’t enough for you to beat me.  
In the evening we are wandering around Porto Cristo, looking at shop windows, eating dinner at my favourite place, Sa Punta, and walking some more again.

“It’s funny, you know, everywhere I look there is Nadal written in neon lights,” you say and you want a photo of it. With me in it!

There is no way I pose for a picture with _’Bon Nadal’_ written above my head and you say I’m spoilsport, and take some only of the signs.  
“Mean just Christmas, no big deal,” I murmur. I know you know and sometimes it’s funny but sometimes is not. It’s only my name, I think, and shrug inwardly.  
“What’s got your boxers in a knot?” you ask me and I shrug for real.  
“Not much.”  
“It’s me leaving, Rafa?”  
I want to say no but you know it’s exactly that, so it makes no sense to lie about it.  
“Oh come on!” You pull me tightly to your side, putting your arm around my shoulder as we are walking on. “We have to be apart for a while to practise. Or how could we improve our game again and cause surprises and challenge each other next season?”

This uplifts my mood and we talk on about our schedule that is exactly the same in the beginning of the new year up until February when you play in Rotterdam and I don’t.  
“I just hate to be apart at Christmas, Rog,” I sigh but I see a slight knowing smile in the corner of your mouth so I get suspicious. “You want to surprise me?”  
You laugh and shake your head. “Did I say anything like that? NO!”  
“But you want, no?” I stop and face you so you can’t escape. “You do?”  
“I don’t say a word, Rafa. Keep your cool!”  
I huff but it doesn’t go unnoticed by me that you still have that little grin on your smug face. So I shut up and don’t nag you anymore, but keep hoping until I know different for sure.  
You take my hand and say, “Let’s go home!”

“You nervous?” you ask when we are in bed and just about to sleep.  
“Excited,” I reply but you know better. It’s _El Clásico_ tomorrow after all, the football match of football matches. “People say I jinx it, no? They always lose when I there.”  
You chuckle. “That’s ridiculous! If they lose, they lose to the best anyway.”  
I feel cheated on! “You do not say that in my house! Be happy with your little Basel and leave Spanish fútbol to me, comprendes?”

I watch angrily how your eyes turn darker and for a second I think we are going to argue on football. But you grab my tank top and pull me to your chest.  
“I wish I wasn’t tired!” you admit. “Your pissed off attitude makes me want you just more.”

The athmosphere is shifted in a mere second and we are making love and I’m doing the _’hard work’_ and you laugh breathlessly at that I remembered promising it last time.


	6. Part Six

### MADRID, SPAIN, 10th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m a bouncing ball of nerves when we board your plane to leave for Madrid.

You try to calm me down but fail, and draw back into your own world, reading your newspapers and sipping your precious coffee.  
The Spanish sport pages are all left for me on the table but I can’t even look at them, knowing I would find only previews of El Clásico.

So I am thinking of everything silly and basically just looking at you, watching you read in peace, like you were in a bubble of content.  
But then you say, “Stop that!”, not even looking up from your paper.  
“I no doing anything!” I answer.  
“You are!” You stare back at me finally. “You are going to burn my clothes off with that heated gaze of yours and I didn’t plan to dig in my suitcases and change, they are so nicely arranged for the trip! And there is also no way I watch Real Madrid naked in 4 degrees, Rafael!”

I just have to giggle at that thought and you grin back. “There. A smile! Seriously, Raf, go play with the toy plane or something! You can do as much as enduring this 40-minute flight!”

I groan but do as you say and it really makes me less anxious. With the help of the remote control, I try to direct the little plane in a way that its wind fluffs your papers. For a while you don’t show you even notice but then it flies too close to your ear and you put the papers onto the table with a loud bang and glare at me.

“I tell you if you hit my head with it, I kidnap you and there won’t be any Real for you! This is my jet and it goes where I want to!”  
“You say I go play with it, no?” I sigh frustratedly. “Read me something, Rog?” I ask. “I behave if you read. German, por favor!”  
And you do, I get to know about some Christmas preparations in Zürich – that is all I understand –, and we soon arrive in Madrid and the jet, as well as your head, is still in a whole, without a wound.

It is raining, not even simply, but rain and snow. It’s freezing.

We meet the president of Real Madrid and Barcelona in the VIP lounge and get drinks served but I can’t drink just now. You on the other hand, accept it gratefully. I can tell I’m making your nerves wrecked by being so reckless all day.

I don’t do the kick off in the beginning of the match because that was an offer for the whole Davis Cup team and the others couldn’t make it, and I wouldn’t take all the spotlight.

We are watching from the VIP box for a while, out of respect toward the president who invited us. And Real is in the lead after 22 seconds! I’m happy, all is well.

You relax too, having chats with Zidane and even Joachim Löw, the German National team’s coach. Of course, in French with Zizu, and in German with Löw.  
I would envy your talent and luck with languages if I didn’t admire it so much.

We leave the VIPs soon, I don’t like to sit there with all the big names, I like just a normal seat better, even though I have Gold Member status at the club. The cameras already showed me on screens so people cheered enough, time to enjoy the football as an average spectator and fan.

But of course that is not so easy. It’s soon discovered that you are here with me and they cut pictures of us in all the time.  
I’m getting irritated by seeing us on the giant screens but you smile and say, “Isn’t it just romantic?” And you lean closer to me and hug me, as if we were a couple at the movies.  
I have to laugh. Your mischief comes in to play very often lately, when it’s about expressing our love publicly.

I’m glad you are here because there is not much good I could say about the match anymore. Real is losing, they are playing blank, Barcelona is finding lucky goals, and when it’s over, I’m leaving the stadium in despair.

People are cheering for seeing us in our way out and I just want to disappear as soon as possible, but you nudge me and nod to the direction of some guys asking for autographs.  
I must. Not that it’s a burden to please them, but I’m so down by Real’s loss.  
The guys are Spanish, we chat some while I’m signing their Real flag and they say we will beat Barça next time. Well, I hope so!

You just stand there all along with your hands deep in your pockets, smiling, and when I’m done, we say quick bye and we turn to leave, but one of the guys calls out a _’Wait!’_

We look at him and he is holding the flag up, looking at you, and says, “Please!” in horribly broken English.  
Your grin lights up the whole stadium and you step back and sign, giggling at their attempts in English, when they thank you.  
“Your welcome!”

You are actually acting all cute but I won’t tell you that. I love your dorky reactions to everything Spanish and especially the heavily accented English. You used to have such laughing fits, first mainly at Spanish language, or more at my Mallorquín, later at my tries in English. Since we have been together, you got more used to it so you settled down with small giggles only. But sometimes you still can’t help it and roll around in joyous laughter when you find it particularly funny. The most precious times are when you are not able to do an interview because the journalist is Spanish. I think I never told you but I have all those moments on my hard drive and I rewatch them when I feel moody or miss you.

We are calling room service in the hotel and eat dinner holed up in our room.

I’m starting to forget the stress of the match because another dread is creeping up on my spine, reaching my heart. You are travelling to Dubai tomorrow morning.

Late at night we are making love in the lights of my safe lamp, how you call it.  
You can’t sleep with lights or TV on, so we carry this little lamp around everywhere to help me sleep. Because I can’t without some lights on. We are so different, but it works.

We are facing each other, you are inside of me, sliding gently in and out and the fuzzy hair on your belly is caressing my cock trapped between us.

I’m desperately clinging to you and you are whispering soothing words to me.

When I’m about to come, you reach between us and pinch my cock just below the head to delay it. I squeeze you inside of me hard at that move, and it sends you over the edge.

You lie on me a bit longer, breathing ragged, but then you pull out of my body, slide lower and swallow my cock just like that, sucking it once, then once more, and that is all it takes for me to come deep down in your throat.  
I wasn’t expecting this. You are up beside me and grinning foolishly when I’m still moaning and trying to find my brain.

“You know, Raf, you stopped calling me Rogelio,” you say and I’m in awe. How can you even think of something like that right now? Wait, how can you think _at all_?  
I mutter something unintelligent and you laugh.  
“Let’s get us clean and sleep!” you say and you reach for tissues.

I shake my head. Previous thoughts coming back to me. “I no want! We stay up more, we have more time together!”  
You finish wiping our skin, throw the tissues in the basket at the other corner of the room, and then stare at me, eyes glinting. “That’s illogical!”  
“Is no logic, Rogi. Is love,” I state.

You are smiling wide and say you love me, too. We are kissing, it’s killing me how tenderly you are licking and sucking my lips.  
“Time flies, you will see!” you whisper between small pecks to my cheek.

Sometime among all the kisses and tangled hugs we both fall asleep.

### MANACOR, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 11th of DECEMBER, 2011

You are gently shaking me awake at 7 in the morning and say you are ready to take off in two hours and if I want to say bye here, it’s okay, I don’t have to come to the airport with you.

I’m alert instantly. “You think I no come?”  
“No. Just don’t get upset!” You smile.

We are at the airport, and you are soon to board your jet.

I’m holding your hand in both of mine, tightening my grip on it more and more by every minute passing.  
“If you break it I can’t play!” you joke.  
I grimace. “Is no funny, Rog!”  
“Look, just… take care, right?” you say but it means you love me and you will miss me. “I call when I settled down. Don’t forget the three hours advance!”  
“Advantage Federer!” I mimic a chair umpire’s voice. “I no forget,” I’m nodding and you are laughing at my silly joke, and I don’t really feel as bad as I thought I would. You are cheery, despite of lack of sleep. “Why you no wake me earlier? We could have fun before you go, no?”  
You giggle. “We are going to have fun very soon, Rafa! Don’t you worry!”  
You are kissing me, hugging tight, and then you are gone.

I send you a text, it says, **’Good trip, Rogelio!’** and before you have to turn your phone off, you send, **’¡Gracias, Rafito, mi corazón! :-)’** back.

Your messages in Spanish always remind me of the very first I’ve ever got from you. It was a terribly laughable mix of Spanish and Italian but I still, after six and a half year, carry it in my heart, word by word.

**’Hola, hombre! Rafa, bueno tenis y Madrid! Muchos contento Rogelio por te!’**

I reread it about a thousand times! It meant the world to me.

I watch your plane taking off and fly away, hating the bird just a little bit for carrying you far, far from me again.  
But it takes only 8 hours and you are sitting in your Dubai apartment, and I am in my room at home again. We are video chatting. We talk about your flight and that you are not even tired and in 3 hours you will be on Swiss TV, they are going to contact you via satellite from an award show.

“So I watch Swiss TV tonight?” I joke.  
You grin. “Don’t be silly! We are talking for hours now. You are certainly not that eager to watch a whole award show just to see me talking for 50 seconds?”  
“Who know?” I say.

Then I tell you I am making myself very busy for the time we are apart. I’m going to go to Barcelona and Madrid, meeting friends, playing a football match, doing the annual Christmas dinner for my foundation and all that things. And get treatment for my knee again.

You say I shouldn’t forget to practise either when I’m fit. “Only 19 days and we are back to play tennis! You know, the game with a net, yellow balls and racquets!”  
“Tu sentido del humor es fascinante, Rog!”  
“Why thank you, Rafa!” You smile ear to ear. “Did you see our Abu Dhabi draw?”  
I shake my head. “No see. Had no time.”

So we are looking at the draw and laughing until we both have tears in our eyes. The organizers made it obvious again. We don’t have to play the first round, that is already the quarterfinal stage there, and we both play on the second day, I following you, and whatever happens, on the final day, too. Also we are scheduled to do most off court activity together.

“Well done!” I whistle and we go off into another round of laughter. “I almost think your hand is in it!”  
“No, no! Really! I think they just wanted to be very sure we both play two matches, no matter who wins what.”  
“I can’t wait!”  
“Good to hear that from you!” you say and I know you mean that I haven’t been too enthusiastic about tennis lately.  
“I miss you,” I sigh.  
“I know!” Your happy mood doesn’t drop and it makes me smile, as well.  
“I miss to touch, Rog,” I admit and don’t even notice I’m absently caressing my thighs.  
You suddenly groan. “Don’t do that! I can’t go and meet sponsors with my mind loaded with images like this!”  
“Long weeks come, no?” I state and lick my lips, consciously this time, very much knowing what it’s doing to you.  
You bang your head into the keyboard and I giggle.  
“I’d better just go, you tease!” you say.  
“We text, no?” I ask and you give me permission to.  
“No dirty talk, Raf! Seriously, I’m gonna have business men and all that kind around!”  
I promise I’m going to be a good boy. We end the call.

In the evening I’m out for dinner with my friends and of course, so much for promises, I’m sending you disturbing texts with sexy stuff and you send me the same kind back.

It’s a funny time and when you go to bed, because you are three hours ahead of my time, I enjoy my night on with friends, having a drink or two and feeling fuzzy inside.

I don’t mind you being away from me right now. It teaches me to appreciate every moment spent together even more.

### MANACOR, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 12th of DECEMBER, 2011

You call me in the morning and ask if I’m available because you are at the local _Nike Tennis_ headquarters, after a fan chat, and the tech guys there set you up for a superhigh quality video call.

I don’t get it first, I think you have it with fans, but you laugh and say, “With you, moron!”

So we are talking again and you are all buzzing energy, the Arabian sun sure hit your head! And you are beautiful, taking my breath away. I blush whenever I look at you directly – I don’t know what came into me but I feel shy under your gaze.

I’m making silly screencaps, I’m that lovesick.

It’s just after noon for you and you are leaving to have lunch, and then practice.

We say bye and I’m a bit lost when the connection goes off. I stay in my room and stare at the pictures I snapped.  
You felt being so close just a minute ago, grinning at me. It’s messing with my head.

I can’t believe you are 5000 kilometers away!

Next time you call when I’m out again and you are already in bed, so it doesn’t last too long. You are telling me about training and that in the fan chat many of them bombarded you with questions about me and you told one that our current favourite song is Feliz Navidad from Michael Bublé because we had a very good time listening to it!

I can’t even! Well, yes, it’s true, we actually had sex while listening to that Christmas album and the next day I caught you blasting it in the car and smile at me sheepishly when I called you out on it! You just said you remembered this song was on when we came. 

It’s entirely embarrassing when my lover is such a hopeless doof!

I cuss you out in Spanish and I see my company looking at me weirdly, and hear you laughing very loud and amused on the other end of the line.  
“Bona nit,” you say in Catalan.  
“Guet Nacht!” I retort.  
“Wow, that was good!” You sound pleased.  
“Merci vilmal!” I grin happily. “I no have laughing fit when you teach me something in Swiss German, no?”  
“Considering you talk only Spanglish, it’s really an achievement, Rafa!”  
“Sí sí, you go now! Or you kill my confidence.”

Later when I’m in bed, I put our Wimbledon 2006 final on and it helps me to fall asleep soon.

### MANACOR, MALLORCA, SPAIN, 13th of DECEMBER, 2011

Your call wakes me up today.

Later I don’t even remember what we were talking about, but we laughed much for sure and I’m still feeling it somewhere in the back of my mind so it makes me smile. You know, when you just have that vague recall of events or things had been said. You can’t put your finger on it, but you know they exist.

I go through the whole day with this in my head.

We are having fun with family in the evening.

Some of my cousins came and we are playing tennis on PlayStation.

They are already arguing before we start though, because two of them want to be me in the game. But most of them agree to lend _’Rafa’_ to the opponent, in case they can be you. It’s always a funny thing.

I remember the time when we played with them and you were _’me’_ and nobody could beat you! I mean, ME! I still laugh at it. One of my cousins said you played as me better than I play in real. It was a bit crushing to both of our egos.  
And you said, “Yeah, I wonder why I can’t beat Rafa in real!” And we heard Uncle Toni laugh from the kitchen!  
I go to bed quite early and it occurs to me you didn’t call me all day.

I check my phone one last time and there is a text, you said you were going to get in bed with your Esquire copy. This came hours ago, I didn’t notice.

And then I suddenly remember.

You said in the morning that you were carrying the December issue of Spanish _Esquire_ around, with my face on the cover, and some people asked you what you were reading so you showed them the magazine and said, “This!”  
They asked if you even understood it and you said no.

But you do.

Love doesn’t know language barriers. We would be in trouble if it did, no?

### BARCELONA, SPAIN, 14th of DECEMBER, 2011

You think the days seem even shorter somehow since we have parted and I have to agree.

We are both super busy, we train, eat, train, train some more, and talk to each other whenever we can, and sleep.

We are snickering together at your coach, Paul, who updates his Facebook about your preparation and says things like _‘RF is eager, the team fired up, lots of intensity, energy, hard work and great fun, lots of good ahead in 2012, and Roger is firing on all cylinders and is being terrific!’_ Got to love the man!

I tell you to bring on the fire in 2012 and you crack up on it.  
“What bad I said?” I ask and you are laughing harder.  
But soon you say, “We are gonna set the courts on fire, Raf!”  
I hope so.

I tell you I’m going to travel to Barcelona in some hours, and visit a Children Village that my foundation supports. I will meet Paz Vega and Freddie Highmore and Nastassja Kinski there, they are also supporting the case.  
“Finally someone who speaks even better Spanglish than you!” you say, meaning Paz, naturally.  
“You eat bad food there, Rog? Bad for your humor!”  
You are giggling. “Didn’t you laugh? You did!”  
I did. But now I only sigh. This is what I hate in not being with you. My mood has the highest peaks and the lowest bottoms within minutes.  
“Is something wrong?” you ask, worry noticable in your tone.  
“No no. I no sure the two more week do good to me,” I admit.  
“Oh Rafa!” you mumble and I can feel you are trying to find the words to reassure me, but it’s the same hard on you, so I don’t mind when you only echo my sigh.  
“Is OK, Rog,” I say. “Can we go now?”  
“No, please, don’t go like this!” you beg me but I can’t help it.  
“Is no bad, Rog. Just let me go now! Por favor! Look what I did! Ruined your day too.”  
“My day is just fine! There is nothing in my life you could ruin, Rafi! You can render me into a crying mess after a final, when nobody sees me, but despite of that, I still think our encounters are beautiful and worth all the pain! So if you can’t ruin that, what more is there? I also feel empty, and you know that. I turn to your side of the bed and it’s cold. It’s still never ruined because I’m waiting for the moment we meet again! And it’s soon… Uhm, won’t you interrupt my speech as you always do?”  
I giggle and sniff. “No this time. Needed to hear it.”  
“You okay then?”  
“Getting better.”  
“What more can I do for you?”

Here we go. There is just that hinting in your voice and my mind is flooded with images of different things we could do, and my body is getting heated. You are having me on a roller coaster again.

“Rafa, I’m the same desperate here, you know? I just want you to be okay, nothing more!” you say.  
“I know. Is your voice. You talk in my ear but you are far.”  
“It won’t last too long.”  
“One hour is too long, Roger,” I murmur and I feel utterly pathetic.  
“Hey, you know what?” you ask in a suspiciously cheery mood. “You are inside, right, in the family house?”  
I nod and I realize you can’t see me, so I answer yes.  
“Okay. I have to recall where exactly I put stuff!”  
I can almost hear you thinking. “What stuff?” I ask.  
“Okay, got it! Can you just go to Maribel’s room now?”  
“What, Rog, why?”  
“Just go! You going? Go, go! Really!” And you are giggling like mad and I have no idea what’s going on in that head of yours but I do as I was asked.  
“I’m here,” I say. “What now?”  
“Open the lowest drawer in her vanity and dig deep to the back end!”  
I do and my hand comes out with a little gift box. The tag reads, _‘To Rafael. Love, Roger.’_  
My eyes get wide. “When you did this?”  
You are chuckling. “Open it!”  
I press my phone between my shoulder and ear and open the box. There are tiny Lindt chocolate balls inside. Suddenly my eyes are tearing up. You make a sappy fool of me.  
“Eat them!” you say. I can hear you are very proud of yourself for this idea!  
“You crazy, Rog! How you think of it?”  
“Oh I hid some uhm… things… for emergency. Took a bit time to figure this was one case of it!”  
I’m sucking on a ball, always liked them, they are delicious.  
“Roger, you no put something in my mother’s closet, sí?” Just the thought creeps me out!  
“No, I’m a responsible adult after all! God, Rafa!” You are laughing insanely. “I figured Maribel wouldn’t mind.”  
“Have more around here?”  
“Maybe one or two. Most are in Porto Cristo!”  
“What? Where? How I no find it?”  
“You will now because you will look,” you say and sound pleased. “Feeling any better?”  
“Sí! I can no believe you. I not know how you do it.”  
You huff playfully and say, “I am Roger Federer!”

I have no argument to that reason!

We both have to leave so we end the call but I’m still amazed and touched to the core by your thoughtfulness. I stare at your handwriting and the small red box while I’m eating the rest of the truffels. I wonder what I will find when I get back to my beach house to search for everything you left for me!

It won’t happen too soon though. I have duties, so the present hunt has to wait.


	7. Part Seven

### BARCELONA, SPAIN, 15th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m telling you all about the charity event we had last evening and you say you see photos and I again morphed into a kid with all those children around me. Indeed, I loved playing fútbol with them. The event was a success even if my Mum made me feel embarrassed by fussing about my collar in front of photographers. Mothers!

You say I usually look older than my age but when I’m in kids’ company, it makes me look young. You can think up some strange things.

We are chatting about this on phone when I accidentally ask from where you got the pictures and you say _rafaelnadal.com_ of course, where else?

“Just don’t tell me you don’t check my website, Rafa!” you laugh.

Naturally, I do. And I admit once I clicked on the Nadal thread on your forum and found some really nice people there, liking me and the dynamics between us. It made my head spin happily and I thought maybe, just maybe, they will accept us together! It was more than two years ago when they created a topic for me, I know because it was new when I first saw it. Our dating was in its early months then and the public had no idea.

You giggle. “I see that regularly, you know? It’s my favourite.”  
“Sí. I think the Roger topic on my site is no nice.” I’m really sad about that. “Whatever, no? Site go under uhm… recreación, sí?”  
“Aww,” you giggle on. “My fans sure put 2 + 2 together fast, I remember! They were always like, _’Don’t you see Roger likes Rafa? Don’t you see it in his eyes?’_ I know in the beginning I tried to seem less obvious because I hardly admitted to myself that I liked you! And still my fans knew.”

I grin. “They observant, no? They are people like you. Is what they see in you, no?”  
“You think so? And what about you, Rafael Nadal? What do you see in me?”  
“Oh. I no see! I no dare to look! I just attack your backhand and hope I survive, no?”

You are having a giggling-snorting fit and can’t respond for long minutes. Then you say, “God, I can see what Barcelona does to a Madrid supporter! City hit you hard, didn’t it?”  
“Probably,” I agree. “But I see in you more. I see you say my name when we fuck. I see you open up. Only I see you bare. No naked but bare heart. I see you touch your body when I ask. Want to touch yourself for me, Roger?”

You can barely wrap your mind around where it came from so suddenly, and frankly, I have no idea either, but I had to say that somehow.  
You force out a cracked yes. Your eyes are deep, dark brown now, I just know, despite of not seeing you yet.

“Have some time, no?” I ask, already booting my laptop and waiting for you to do the same.  
When it’s done, you initiate the video call and first you just giggle into your camera.  
“Raf, I don’t know if I can do it. It freaks me out when you act like this!”  
“You can hung up the phone, no?” I advice, because you are still talking into it, instead of the microphone.  
You actually blush. “See? Brainstop!” And we hung up. “Wait! Why can’t I see you?”  
I laugh into my mic. “You really slow, Rog! I no want you see me.”  
You make a tortured sound. “Don’t do that! I can’t…”  
“You can! You take lead when you see me. I want you no talking, Roger. Just lie back on the bed and follow! You want?”

It’s unnecessary to ask because I already see you leaning back on the cushions, getting to a comfortable position.  
“Mind the back, Rog!” I warn you and you smile. We are always careful with your back; it’s a bit of a weak point of you.  
“All good,” you declare. “It sucks I can’t see you, Rafa!”  
“Won’t suck. Stop talking!”

You do, only moaning to my demanding tone, not leaving any doubt in me of that you love when I get like this, whether it freaks you out, or not.  
I can see you are hard, your head popped up by a pillow and your eyes gazing into the camera. Breath quickening, and mine is matching yours.

“Take yourself in hand and stroke!” I say and even before you hear me finish the sentence, you are slipping a hand in your shorts and touch your cock, tugging the garment down with your other hand, so I can see just everything.  
I press my palm to my own bits through my clothes and try to swallow a too loud groan.  
“Both hands, Rog!” I order.

Your left releases the shorts’ fabric it has been gripping hard so far, and you hold your balls in it soon. Only holding first and gently squeezing and rolling them later.

I would lose it if I didn’t concentrate only on you. I’m so close only by watching you that it won’t take more than a few strokes to come.

Your muscles are twisting in your lower belly, I can see it well, and your tempo fastens. You whisper _’Rafa’_ twice and then I can’t compose myself anymore, I give in and hear myself growling very loud and I can’t stand looking at you but I still do.

You are utterly out of this world, sprawled on the bed, legs wide open, your head falling back and spine arching from the mattress, and the last I see before I throw myself back on my bed is the first white spurt of come on your skin.

I’m coming down from my high slowly when you breathe out a weak _’Rafa’_ again.

I lift my head and look at you. You are still in the same pose, right hand still holding your cock, now soft, and the left combed deep into your hair on your chest.  
I would give everything just to touch you there!

You look completely debauched, spent, fucked.  
I start to giggle.

You join in. Then you say, “Can we just… can you turn on the cam now?”  
I’m the deepest shade of red when I do and you grin and say, “All shy now, huh?”  
I duck my head, trying to hide my eyes behind the curtain of my hair, but you only laugh.  
Then, sighing, you say you want to do it all over again.  
“But next time let me see you, too!” you ask and I nod.

Your eye colour is back to its usual warm, comforting, light brown when we sign off.

Late in the evening I’m sitting by our table at the Christmas dinner for my foundation and having my meal, conversing with the guests around me.

My phone jumps in my pocket and I discreetly pull it out under the table.  
A text from you.

**’Saw photos, you look awesome tonight, mi amor! R’**

I send you a thanks and wish you good night. When I push my phone back into my pocket, I catch my Mum looking at me across the round table.

I smile, I think she will scold me silently for pulling myself out of conversation for a while, but she doesn’t look like that. She suddenly beams at me with her most beautiful, ageless smile and nods her head, noticable only for me.  
I understand it’s her approval, saying, not the first time of course, that she believes I chose well.

### BARCELONA, SPAIN, 16th of DECEMBER, 2011

I travel to Madrid early in the morning, and we are both online and in front of our TVs to watch the UEFA Champions League draw of the last 16 teams, at midday. Well, 3 PM, your time. It’s broadcasted from Nyon, Switzerland, and I feel nostalgia for your homeland, and you say you are homesick.

We don’t have time to lament on this long because the pairs are drawn and Real Madrid gets CSKA Moscow, and FC Basel has Bayern München as opponent.

You sigh. It’s hard to decide if it’s good, because a smaller team can host such a huge club, or it’s very bad because they probably can’t win this round.

“You slimey lucky bastards,” you cuss us, as in the Madridistas, out.  
I snicker. “We see, no? You beat Man United! No give up just yet!”  
“Easier said than done!” you mutter.  
I scratch my head. “I wanted Basel for Real, no?” I admit sheepishly.  
Your eyes are round like a saucer. “Is not enough for you always playing against me? Now you want your Team Superhuman kick our tiny little Swiss ass? That is no fair, Rafa!”

I laugh. You seem really pissed off by the draw.

“No, I say I wanted Basel in Madrid. You come to see and I go see in Basel, no? Was nice idea!”  
Now you burst out in laughter, too. “Rafa, not every football match can be our date!”  
We giggle. “Sí. Pity, no?”  
“Ah, whatever, we figure something out! You take care of your win and we might meet in the last 8!”

I love how you are able to switch between pissy and optimist in a matter of seconds.

I meet a group of friends today and we have a fútbol match, half of us dressed in Barcelona shirts, my half dressed in Real Madrid’s. We win. The only occasion when Real beats Barça. Unfortunate.

I’m invited to present awards to Julio Iglesias in the evening. It’s a nice experience to meet him, though I’m really nervous when I have to make a speech before I hand him the awards. But it goes well in the end and I have fun.  
At night we gather with the same bunch of friends and hit a club downtown.

It’s great, a golf themed place named _Hoyo 19_ , so I feel instantly at home and we party into next day. I get through a very tough half hour though, when the 4 or 5 tequilas hit me, and I find your last text that I had missed, and I excuse myself, go to the bathroom and sit on the floor, sobbing for ten minutes in desperate need for you.

But you are already sleeping.

I could lie down here on the tiled floor of a club restroom, curl up, and die, without you.  
It’s too far.

You are too far.

Too long.

Marc López comes and finds me.

“He wouldn’t wanna see you like this, Rafael!” he says.  
I don’t look at him, just stare down on my feet and say, “He do. He bear to see me every state. No matter how bad.”  
Then Marc suddenly smiles wide. “You be happy because you have your match then!”

And he lifts me, holding me under my shoulders, and leads me to the basins.  
“Wash up, Rafael!”

I do.

“You more than my doubles partner, Marc!” I bubble, and he laughs.  
“Sure, Rafa! Now come, I take you to your hotel.”

I know I’m awfully clingy when I’m drunk but Marc doesn’t care. It’s not the first time he brings me home and tucks me in. He leaves my safe light on and I’m out cold before he can say good night.

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 17th of DECEMBER, 2011

I return to Porto Cristo and eagerly begin to search for the gifts you hid.

I come up with nothing, despite of looking everywhere I find sensible, from my room to the media corner and the bathroom. Even the toilets.

We are talking on phone later, you say you are outside on your balcony and watching the Sun set. I remember the sight of the lights reflecting on the Dubai skycrapers.

You are very relaxed and laugh at me being irked so much by not discovering any presents yet.

I groan. “Give me hint, Roger!”  
“All right, you impatient! I say one word. Speed!”  
I’m thinking for a minute. “Is in my cars?”  
You snicker. “I don’t say more! You are on your own, Raf!”

When we finish the call, I run to my garage and check my Mercedes.

Nothing.

Then I go to the Aston Martin, and it’s there, sitting on the backseat, a quite huge polar bear toy, all beautiful white and shiny and silky to the touch. I have no vague idea when you could leave it here, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s love at first sight and I instantly know I’m going to sleep with it when you are not around.

**’I gonna call him Ozee! :)’** , I send to you in a text.

When we are at the Australian Open, we often visit the Zoo and watch the polar bears and penguins. And years ago you taught me Aussie is pronounced as Ozee. At least that’s how you wrote it down.

The sunset has me at my private beach, alone, sitting in the sand, looking at the sea, and drinking a glass of wine.  
Then I lie down and watch the stars appear slowly above me, in the sky.

I almost doze off, so I force myself to get up and go in the house.

I cuddle Ozee. My nose maybe cheats me but I think if I concentrate hard enough, I can even smell a slight hint of your scent on his fur and I miss you just a tiny bit less at that moment.

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 18th of DECEMBER, 2011

Toni and Dad come to me today with a serious announcement.

I couldn’t be more unhappy, to tell the truth.

It turned out we can’t spend Christmas at home because some sponsor connected duties came up for me and the team need to leave for Abu Dhabi earlier. So we had to make the decision that we travel on the 23th.  
And I can’t have my extended family with me this Christmas. So that that you will be apart from me, wasn’t bad enough, no?

I sigh deep after we discussed the details and Uncle and Dad go on organizing things.

I call you.

You say it’s going to be okay and I shouldn’t worry. Sometimes things like this happen, we can’t do anything much about it, if they have to be.

“Just tell your folks I’m sending the jet to pick you all up!” you offer.  
I accept and say the guys will contact you and talk it through.  
“You know, Rog…” I start uncertainly. “I think Dubai is close, no?” I hope you get to where I’m going with this. “Can’t you just…?”  
I hear you laugh. “I wondered when you were gonna ask that!”

I suddenly have a rush of hope but you shatter my dreams even before they could have formed into any shape.  
“Can’t, Rafa, I’m so sorry! My schedule is the same tight and I also have stuff to do. Can’t fall out of practice rhythm either. You know that.”

I grunt feverishly. “Gonna be so close and still so far! Is no fair!”  
“But we meet on the 28th when I also arrive in Abu Dhabi, how it was originally planned! So till then, you think of having a nice Christmas and don’t let anything get in the way, right? We are going to talk as much as we can, Niño!”

I reluctantly agree. What else could I do?

It’s irritating how cheery you can act at times like this and sometimes I want to punch you in the face for that. You never let me sulk when something happens against my will or my likings. Then again, it works vice versa, too. Most of the times I think you feel you must behave so mature in critical situations and settle an example. I find this adorable, so all in all I’m not mad at you. Only want to hit your handsome face. And then kiss it better.

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 19th of DECEMBER, 2011

It’s Monday and Marc López arrives to train with me throughout this week, until Friday, when we leave for the Emirates.

Eight days left till I see you again in person!

We are having much fun and I’m so grateful to Marc for being here. I think I would go insane without you by now.  
My cousins come over again, I’m cooking for them and Marc and me having deathly game battles with them till late night. They say they love to be at my place because I let them stay up way beyond their bedtime.

Whenever I’m watching them fool around and basically being just happy kids, I wonder if you want children one day. After all we have a monstrous house being built, so you sure thought of filling it with kids’ laughter in some years, no? I’m just too fearful to bring up the topic to you yet.

I definitely want children.

Not soon. Just one day in the future.


	8. Part Eight

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 20th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m alone at early evening and waiting for you to show up online.

You were having a day off and when you pop up, you seem full of energy, completely recharged, despite of having very difficult training these days.

“I was out in the desert near the city and it was awesome!” you tell me and I hear the awe in your voice. After all the years preparing in Dubai, your second home, you still can’t have enough of that landscape. It’s endearing.

“You no miss the snow at Christmas, mountain man?” I ask and see you smile.  
“Oh, man, I do! So much!” you sigh. “But it’s okay, I know one day I will have all the snow of home for the holidays, when I retire!”  
I giggle. I perfectly know we will live in Switzerland in the winter months when you retire, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, even if I wasn’t born for that climate. You deserve it, when all this madness we call tennis career ends.

This reminds me of something. “I talked to your father,” I say. “We arranged things. They come here and fly with me. You sure know. I say sorry for be a trouble but he say is no problem.”  
You are all smiles. “It doesn’t really matter if they drop you off in Abu Dhabi and then come to Dubai, you know! Dad says you are too polite for your own good and he has no idea how an overconfident prick like me could catch such a nice guy like you!”

I blush. “I like overconfident prick. Robert know well! But I wanna do things no polite!” I babble.  
“We gonna have cyber sex again?” you snicker.  
“You act like that and I chicken out!”  
“No, please! I will behave!” you say but you are still grinning playfully.  
“Why I feel you up to something, Rog?”  
You clear your throat and I know I was right.  
“Uhm… just, uhm, did you find any new presents yet?” you ask.  
I shake my head.  
“Then I’m gonna give you one now. Go find your secret box, Rafa!”  
My eyes widen. “No no no! You no get me another sex toy, sí? I no like them!”  
“That’s not true!” you smile.

All right, maybe not true, but I am deadly afraid of using any. I allow it only when we read the instructions word by word, prepared for everything could happen! I don’t like to lose control that much but you always say it’s the same when you touch me. I’m lost only by that. So no toy matters after all.

“Just look at it, Raf!” you ask. “It won’t bite you.”  
“You no funny just now, Roger! I no using nothing if you no here with me!”  
“Okay. You don’t have to. But see it for me? And bring it with you to Abu Dhabi?”

I reluctantly climb off my bed and reach in my nightstand to have my box. There is a smaller package inside, still in factory wrap. So I open it. It’s a slim and long thing with a wider part at one end of it, sure to not let it slip completely in. Nothing scary after all, and when I press its remote, a certain ring in it starts to buzz.

You are not saying a word, letting me take a proper look and find it out for myself.

I still don’t wanna use it while you are at the other end of the world, but I can’t deny its sight makes my inwards shake and blood rush to two directions, one is upward, to my face and head, the other is downward to my intimate areas.

I know exactly what it is going to do to me and I hear you clear your throat again, so I know you also think of the same.

“I’m gonna use it first, so you can see it’s safe,” you say in hoarse voice and I’m instantly hard.  
I throw the toy on the bed and hide my head under a pillow.  
“You no do this to me!” I groan but you can’t hear my muffled sounds, so you only laugh.  
“Come on, Rafa! Just put it away for now and touch yourself for me!”

Despite of every attempt not to, I moan. And I do what you asked, lying back on my bed and stroking my cock for you to see. I’m not able to watch what you are doing, I’m so much gone, because you are talking to me constantly, a flow of words mixed in English, French, Swiss German and Mallorquín.

When my orgasm takes over me, I look up with my last morsel of willpower and our eyes meet through the screens.  
You hiss and your body stays still, except of the few violent shakes. I can’t see, the camera is aimed higher, but I know you came and it’s even sexier to recognize the signs only in your facial expressions.

I’m sure staring at you like a fool again because you say this is the worshipping Rafa you see now, and your cheeks are burning.

“Afterglow suits you well, as always,” you murmur and my deep red blush now matches yours.

I comb my finger through my hair to get some sticky locks out of my face.  
“I wish I could do that now!” you say, sighing.  
“Soon!” I reply and we smile.

It’s still early for me to go to bed but I fall asleep right after we say good night.

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 21st of DECEMBER, 2011

I can’t even endure this day!

My shoulder is slightly injured and after practice I call you and actually cry a bit, it hurts that much and I’m scared shitless that I can’t compete at Abu Dhabi.

But you say soothing words, you always know what to do, what to tell me, how to make it all better.

When we hung up, I really believe everything is going to be all right.

I text you quickly, saying, **’I still not know how U do it!’** , and you reply in a minute that you are Roger Federer after all. I grin wide. This is an ongoing joke between us, for years now.

Unfortunately I can’t even make it to my second practice, because of the shoulder pain. It has to rest now, and then we will see.

I still linger around the tennis center and still hit some with the group of sport school children when they arrive to visit me in training.

They are from the school I also went to for a while; they are moto racers, and I receive a gorgeous helmet from them, in return for hosting them around our center.

You and I, we can’t talk anymore today, and it makes me grumpy again, and just more irritated with my body.  
I feel so weak sometimes.

You would slap me for thinking that.

But it’s a terrible moment, I’m hurting and I can’t even imagine what I would do if I wasn’t able to attend Abu Dhabi.

I groan in bed, cussing my unluck out in at least three languages.

I just want this day end!

### PORTO CRISTO, SPAIN, 22nd of DECEMBER, 2011

At least one thing is easier when I’m held back from training: I can pack in peace, and not in a hurry for once. This is always the hardest packing of the year. When I was being at home for longer, and I have to leave to start a new season.

And this early I have to leave this year! It only adds to my moodiness.

For your jet comes to pick us up tomorrow, I decide I stuff Ozee in a bag and bring him with me to the first leg of the Tour. Maybe we can take him to see his real brothers in the Melbourne Zoo!

This cheers me up and I think you perfectly knew how much these gifts would mean to me when I couldn’t just turn to you and hug you and feel all the worry leave me by your closeness.

I’m in the bathroom, but I realize I don’t want to take anything much with me. I can always get stuff there, or use what the hotel offers. Or better, use your things.

I pack just my toothbrush, I don’t know why. I’m kind of fond of it.  
I can’t wait for putting it beside yours again!

Yes, packing definitely lifts my spirit!

“How is it going?” you ask when we video chat.  
I mumble something about suitcases and that I packed the stupid sex toy, and you laugh.  
“You beautiful, sexy thing…” you say in a husky tone, and I glare at you.  
“No sex, Rogi, por favor! Let me just lie here and tell me things, no? I listen!”

I see you look at me calculating for a second, as if you were about to say something, probably something about my well-being. But the look is gone soon and you smile again and tell me you are feeling so good, and you played a prank on Paul again, like a year ago, when you hit 100 tennis balls aimed at his car and they all fell in, through the open sun roof of it, and when Paul opened the door, they piled out around his feet.

Now you covered his racquet’s handle with honey, before he came to play you a bit, just for fun. He gripped it and got so pissed off at you, even more than he was back then, with the car incident!

“He said last year at least I was hitting the balls while I did that, but now, it was all shit and unnecessary and reckless and childish and shit and shit, shit, shit!”  
You are laughing and it sounds like pearls that are collected by divers in my island. You also shine like them.

I talk about lining up my toothbrush with yours and you find it lovely.  
You say there are only five days left until our meet up. I smile.

“I can no wait to see your parents tomorrow, no?”  
You sigh. “I’m not so sure it’s safe to have you around them for so long, without me there to check on your gossiping! Hopefully Mum won’t bring the photo albums of my childhood! And if she asks about children, just bolt up, please, and leave the scene in a hurry!”  
“What? They ask you of children?” My curiosity is perked up instantly.  
You are giggling, sort of embarrassed. “Well, yeah, Mum does.”  
“You never tell me, Rog!”  
“’Cause it’s so unsettling! I mean, she e-mails me scientific articles about researching of methods! Last time she sent me some summary of experiences with surrogate mothers!”  
You sound a bit desperate and I have to grin. “Is bad? You no need to read them.”  
Your eyes turn into frightened. “Of course I have to! Rafa, Mum asks me about what I thought of it and if I can’t come up with some convincing, well-formed opinions, I’m busted!”  
I’m laughing openly now. This is just too funny!  
“OK, Mums are bothersome. I give you that!”

I somehow have a feeling this is not the time to ask you about children seriously. Even if it seems such an opportunity. Something just doesn’t click.

But you surprisingly go on.  
“You know, she loves your little cousins and thinks they are all so beautiful. That is the perfect hint. I mean, she always emphasises what a huge family you came from! So you sure want kids. Like, tons of them and the sooner, the better.”

I’m taken aback. What should I say to that?  
“Sí.” I try to seem neutral. Kind of.  
“Sí what? Kids? Tons of them?”  
I bite my lower lip. “Both.”  
“Oh!” That is all you can force out. “But…”  
“Not now!” I save you.  
You swallow. “Good.”  
“Is OK, Roger! I no think we can manage kids on Tour. I want when we retire. Or one of us.” I smile and feeling a bit out of place. This talk popped up so sudden, even though I have been giving thoughts of the topic lately.

I think it slightly threw you off, too, but you grin back at me and say, “Yes. But then I just keep reading those articles. You can never know! Is good to be informed.”

And there it is, that fluttering feeling in my stomach. The image of a future family with you.

“Maybe you share some? That you think I understand!” I say, blushing.  
I look at you and I’m positive you are glowing. So I know, deep inside, those mails from your Mum didn’t really scare you.

We are smiling stupidly at each other.

I want to kiss you so bad!

“You know, Rog,” I start, “I not know what to do with my mouth. When we do things like this. I know what to do with my hands or my body. But I miss your lips on mine.”

You breathe loud. “Five days, Rafa. It’s nothing!”

I lay awake at night and wonder if there is any possibility to mingle our DNA somehow.

I’m restless. Thinking of brown-eyed, brown-haired children who speak five different languages by the age of six.

### UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 23rd of DECEMBER, 2011

I didn’t sleep much, to tell the truth. I was too excited!

Now we are all here at the Palma airport, your parents have just arrived from Zürich and we are going through the VIP gates to board your plane. At this moment I really love her! She’s going to carry me closer to you. Yes, I have this love-hate relationship with the jet that you call _Falcon_. Simply because it’s a Falcon 2000EX type. Just the sight of it makes me giddy, but I know I will hate her again when I land in Abu Dhabi and she flies on to Dubai to you, without me.

I’m feeling bittersweet.

My shoulder seems to be okay; hopefully the knee, too.

I want to kick off next season now, but I know I’m not prepared yet.

So in the plane I’m having these odd feelings, upside-down, inside-out stuff.

We are settled and lifted into the air when Lynette, your mother, comes to me and takes the seat by my side. Her open face lights me up and I beam at her.  
She asks me how I have been doing and we chatter about practice and anticipation for the next year, and only a bit about any injury.  
She is telling me they were out and about to see the house being built for us in the mountains, and she thinks it’s turning out wonderfully.  
I can’t stop smiling at her. Your Mum is _awesome_!

She stands suddenly, leaves me for a while and comes back with a nice metallic box clutched in her hand. She puts it in my lap.  
“I baked Swiss Christmas cookies for you, I know you like them, mi hijo,” she states and I think I must look idiotic with my hung open mouth and eyes staring in awe.  
Not that she doesn’t do this when we are at their place, or yours, in Switzerland! But I just didn’t think of it she would bother, only for a plane ride.  
And she calls me _mi hijo_! My son, in Spanish.

I look into the box and there are all the special treats in there. Lynette went too far, just outdid herself and only for my sake. It makes me blush and stutter some very clumsy thanks.  
She only smiles back dearly.

The smell is delicious and I want to taste them so much.  
Your Mum sees it and says I should eat some. So I do. Who could not, sí?

It’s _Basler Leckerli_ , one of the most traditional Swiss cookies, and two Christmas treats, _Brunsli_ , that is a kind of brownie, and _Chräbeli_ , the anise cookies. 

I bite, chew, and I’m in heaven. Swiss do make the best sweets in the world!  
I’m eating almost half of them under Lynette’s proud gaze.

I have inappropriate thoughts meanwhile; I’m thinking actually you are my Basler Leckerli, which seems so funny that I giggle with half chewed cookies in my mouth.

I’m full and tired. It hits me hard and your Mum tells me to try sleeping some because I look drowsy.

It feels too soon when I’m awaken by small shakes. It’s Rafa Maymó, my physio, who gently smiles at me when I open my eyes, just half, and says we are here and have to leave the plane.

I don’t think I’m even really awake! My limbs are heavy, I can barely walk, and I’m still so sleepy I could be out cold while I’m nudged through the corridor, the door, the stairs and the airport.

I’m stumbling through anyway, I think I didn’t even say bye to your parents who fly on to Dubai! Though I remember your Dad patting my shoulder.

Grateful that I have my team to take care of luggage, I get allowed through the security checks, and soon we are out in the huge lounge, all glass and all metal. On the way, I register the palm trees inside of the building but somehow this doesn’t seem weird to me. After all, I’m at familiar territory.

I’m leading the way, my team strolling after me. I only want to get to my hotel room and sleep more!

“Hope we get cars from sponsors!” I mutter and Uncle Toni and Benito, my PR manager are laughing.

It’s 4 pm here, Arabian signs everywhere, and I wish to get out of the airport so much.

When we are outside, the hot air and humidity hit me instantly. It’s overwhelming, and borderline insufferable. I feel I’m going to collapse. Maybe flying sleepless was a really bad idea, but what else I could have done? It just turned out this way. And maybe I also shouldn’t be that stupid to still wear my puffy jacket that I needed when we took off from Palma, where it was chilly in the early morning. I lost my mind.

I search for Toni with my eyes, I’m getting really annoyed.  
“Car?” I ask impatiently and see he is not happy I’m taking such a tone with him.  
But somehow he lets it slip beside his ears because he is also searching for something, and finally he sees it. He points that way.  
“There is your car,” he says and waves at the figure who is at the car’s side.

I can’t see straight, but I’m amused. Since when do drivers lean on the car like that?

And then something happens. I vaguely realize I know this person at the car.

The world stops and I forget to breathe.

It’s you. YOU! And that is _your_ car!

Okay, I’m sure still in the plane and I’m dreaming, or if we had really landed, I’m hallucinating! In my vision you are here and walking toward me, smile bright, actually very lunatic, and when you reach me, your mouth is moving. You want to say something but I can’t hear.

You snap your fingers in front of my face and the picture gets clear. I hear my name.

“You are acting kind of scary, Rafa,” you say, and then, only then I understand that it’s real and I take two steps and crush you in my arms.

I want to cry. I babble nonsense, asking how, asking why, when, what you are doing here, why didn’t you ever tell me you were going to come all the way to Abu Dhabi for me?

You are giggling as if you were high, into my neck, holding me tight, I feel your stubble scratching my skin and your lips touching.  
“It’s Dubai, you fool,” you say, laughing in my ear, your hot breath hitting it in puffs. “Look around!”

I do, and suddenly I can see the differences that I should have seen from the beginning but I was too drained to. This is Dubai Airport, and there are no such palm trees at the Abu Dhabi one, and when I look behind, I can see your parents still there, hanging just a bit in the distance. Why didn’t I notice they were behind me all the time? I thought they went on in the jet.

“¡Dios mío!” I sigh, still holding you around your waist.  
“Was all a trick, Raf. You didn’t really think I wanted to spend Christmas without you, did you?”

Then I get it. You all played this trick on me, including Toni, my whole family, team – everybody knew!

“You don’t mind, yeah?” you ask, a bit of worry in your tone.  
“No, no, nononono…” I press my face back into your neck. “It mean I no have sponsor duty, sí?” I sound muffled but you get me.  
“No, you don’t. Clear schedule till the 28th when we go to the real Abu Dhabi. Together!” you grin, putting emphasis on ’real’, but I can’t be bothered that you could fool me this easily.  
“Happy?” you ask. I can hear the smile in your voice.  
“Massa bo per ser veritat,” I mutter in Catalan, still hidden under your chin.  
“What does that mean?”  
“Too good to be true,” I answer, and you hold my body away from yours to look me in the eye.  
“It’s true, Rafa. I’m real.”

And that said, you kiss me.  
I hear Benito whistling but I couldn’t care less. I could take you right here!

“Sí,” I whisper when we part. “Sí. You real.”  
“Then just let me say hello and I take you home, right? You look awful!” you chuckle and we make our way to where our families and teams are waiting.

You hug your parents and shake hands with Toni, sharing knowing looks. He must have been your main partner in crime.

Then we pack my private suitcases in your car trunk, wave, and soon driving to your apartment complex.

“Your parents, is no problem?” I ask, leaning back into the comfortable seat and resting my head, turned to you, watching your beautiful profile.  
You shake your head. “I planned everything like this. We will see everyone plenty of times, don’t worry!”  
You take your right hand off the wheel and reach out to hold my face in your palm.  
“You okay?”  
I nod into your hand. “Tired.”  
“But good surprise?”  
“Best,” I say, grinning.

You ask if I’m hungry, when we drop down my bags in the apartment. I’m not, I tell you I ate plenty of your Mum’s cookies. Your eyes sparkle.  
“I hope she brought many!” you say.  
“I have the box in my bag, you can have them,” I offer, but you say maybe later; now you just want to get in bed and not leaving it until tomorrow morning.  
“Is early, no?” I ask.  
You shrug. “You need to sleep and I want you close.”  
I come to your arms and feel sorry for not being able to do anything more.  
“I wanted to be ready when we meet, no?” I murmur. “Have crazy sex.”  
You are giggling. “We can do that later. Much time to be together from now on, Raf!”

Finally my happiness overshines tiredness a bit and it strikes me what you did for me again, and that I’m really here, with you, and I almost feel the rocks rolling off my chest.

At last I perfectly know what to do with my mouth, where to put my lips, when I kiss you and you eagerly return it, moaning into me.

You lead me in the bedroom, undress me, then yourself, and we fall in bed.  
One last kiss, and in a minute I’m dead to the outside world.

I wake after some hours and I’m alone, but hear you moving around in the flat, probably in the kitchen. Sure you got hungry.

I look at the clock on the nightstand and it’s only 10 pm. I debate, should I get up, eat something and sleep more later, or just stay, pull the blanket on my head and slumber on?

I choose the latest.

The next time I open my eyes, you are lying by my side. Watching me and smiling back, when I grin at you between two yawns.

You are wearing pyjamas, so it’s sure proper bedtime now. The TV is on, muted.

I groan when I taste my own mouth and get up, striding through the room and reaching the joint bathroom to take a piss and brush my teeth.

You apparently took out my most necessary stuff from the suitcases and bags because my toothbrush is here in the same handler as yours.

I stare at them and feather-light happiness takes completely over me.

The widest smile looks back at me from the mirror – my own.

Then I notice you in it, leaning into the doorframe, one corner of your mouth turned up. I would say you look smug but I know better.

“Lined up nicely?” you ask. You really do remember every word I say!  
“Perfecto!”  
“Welcome home, Rafael!” you say, flashing your sweetest grin at me.

My heart is racing, pounding in my chest, and yet, knowing you are mine is the most relaxed feeling in the world.


	9. Part Nine

### DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 24th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m all over you in the minute I open my eyes, actually jumping on you in the bed, chanting, “Rogi Rogi”.

I can tell you are going to get out of bed with the wrong foot if I continue it, so I straddle you properly instead, and kiss you.

“Better,” you mutter and kiss me back but then pull away. “Should brush my teeth first!”  
I shake my head. “No matter! You so go suck my cock! You need punishment!”

You are a bad actor, despite of having such a great pokerface on court. But I appreciate your trial at pretending to be the shocked man!  
“How is it that I set you up being here and still get a punishment?” you ask, fake hurt in your voice.  
“Mhhmmm, you made me think I no see you at Christmas! That is why!”  
You giggle. “Rafa, Abu Dhabi is only an hour and a half drive from here! I was surprised you believed I wouldn’t even visit you!”  
I glare at you. “You liar! You get punishment for this! You laugh at me!”

The next kisses are not gentle anymore and I soon lose the battle and it’s not a punishment for you but me, because you are taking your precious time with me, prolong my orgasm by stopping right before I would come.  
I’m hovering above you, my head dropped on your chest, and you are jerking me faster, and when I’m finally allowed to, I’m getting all my junk over your body, from hips to neck, all stuck in your dark hair. It is really disgusting and we can’t stop laughing.

I feel heavy and collapse on you; we are glued together now, but neither of us minds.

I slip my hand between us and touch your cock, you hiss and moan and say, “Rafael…” and my core shakes by the needy rumble of your voice and the use of my full name.

I bend to kiss you and swallow your keening sounds. “Missed you,” I mumble between pecks on your face and jaw and you reach up to twine your fingers in my hair, getting my locks out of the way.  
“Tickles,” you whisper and it makes me come to a halt, this moment is so beautiful.

You are motionless and silent, too, but my hand is still on your cock so soon you can’t help it lifting your hips as much as you are able to under me.  
“Don’t stop!” you ask.

I oblige, sliding a bit more to your side, so I don’t crash you and I can touch you more freely. Your hard cock in my hand is like rock wrapped in the finest silk.

My supporting arm that I’m leaning on beside you just reaches your head and I’m fiddling with your hair. Tousled by sleep and perfect like that, as well.

You are moaning into my kisses, wanting to catch my tongue, but I don’t let you. Your muffled, incoherent protests make me grin into your neck that I am licking now.

You are sighing-breathing-groaning _’Rafa, Rafa’_ into the air of the room and I know you are close.  
I hear another _‘Rafael’_ , but it doesn’t come from your lips.

It’s harsher and loud, still distant. And coming in a woman’s voice!

We both freeze. Your overstimulated cock is throbbing in my hand.  
“I forgot,” you moan. “Gave the keys to your family, too.”  
I panic, sure looking terrified by the thought of my mother coming in our room and catching us like this.  
Her voice repeating _’Rafael’_ is pulling closer and closer.  
“¡Sólo un minuto, Mamá!” I shout and the noise from ouside the room fades.

We stare at one another then giggle a bit. “Close,” I mutter, indicating the previous scene.  
“So close,” you whisper, and thrust your hips up, your cock sliding between my loosened fingers.

I don’t know how you didn’t lose any willingness by the mere shock of my mother interfering, but I guess you are just over that point.

I tighten my grip on you again and jerking you on, I push myself up with my other hand, and kneeling over you. I touch you behind your balls with my freed hand and press hard on that special spot.

That instant you arch off the bed and come on your belly and my fingers in hot spurts.

I’m kneeling there, wide smile on my face, looking at your heaving figure resting in the rumpled sheets, coming off your high, relaxing in the end.

“That was hot!” you mumble with closed eyes.  
I giggle. “And sticky. You like danger, no?”  
You open your eyes and look at me with the sweetest, most sincere adoration. “I like everything with you. Caught or not, is the same.”

That said, I’m suddenly reminded of my mother and probably all my entourage outside.  
“We need shower, Rogi, get up!” I hurry you and move away, desperately trying to not get the gluey stuff on the sheets.

You groan. “No, give me a kiss!”  
I look back and say, “I no lie in that mess again!”, and start up from the bed.  
But you bolt up, miming a hurt tone, asking, “You not?”, and reach out for me, trying to get hold of whatever body part you can reach.  
“No, Roger!” I squeal and stumble away, but too late. You already have your arm around my waist and pull me over with force, so I lose balance and fall upon your body with a thud.

You are laughing delightedly, your hands in my hair and pulling me into a kiss.

It’s so good I never want to leave this bed anymore, lying in gooey stuff or not!

“¡Te quiero, Rafael Nadal!” you say, smiling, and I’m hot all over again.

You slide your hand down on my back, all along my spine, to my ass, and gently squeeze one cheek. “I want to be inside you so bad, Rafa!” you murmur, and brush your fingers through my entrance.  
I whimper and feel my cock hardening again. “Rog… Familia!”

It seems to sober you up a bit. “Yes. Right.” You arch up for a last kiss, slip your tongue in my mouth and I’m so bothered, all I want is to scream at my folks to leave and come back in the next century. By then hopefully I can have just enough of you to feel at least half satisfied!

We trade kisses, of course that wasn’t the _last_ last.

“Why you give key to them, Roger?” I ask breathlessly.  
You release me from the tight hold and we gather ourselves a bit.  
“Because this all is for you, your Christmas, and I wanted them all around, as many of them as can come,” you answer. “And wanted them to feel at home.”  
I blush and duck my head, trying to cough a bit to cover it.

You chuckle. “Come on, let’s get cleaned! I don’t want to get on Ana-Maria’s bad side!”  
“Or Toni’s!” I add and crack up, seeing your crumpled face.  
“Worse, Maymó!” you jump in. “He is such a sweet looking guy, always kind, always smiling, but you know, physios are mean individuals and can murder in style. Like in Kill Bill, that five point palm exploding heart technique. He just touches you somewhere and you are dead!”  
I’m amused you think up such a theory. Then again, physios are scary and Rafa Maymó is like my _brother_ and he would snap anybody’s backbone, did they ever hurt me!

We shower together, and it’s really hard to resist touching but we manage and in 20 minutes we are out in the living room, fresh, dressed, welcoming my family.

The day from then on is a blur, family constantly coming and going, circling us, mostly in the kitchen, wanting to help, which means in the case of mothers that they want to do everything by themselves.

You are conducting them just fine, or they only let you direct because secretly they will have the last look at the food done in either way. I wonder if their submission is one of your Christmas presents this year! I’m laughing all day long at that dance of our mums round you and I feel so happy not cooking.

It has another practical reason. I sit close and watch you do your thing again. I can’t have enough of you making food.

You are cutting two types of cheese into cubes, preparing it for making fondue of them. The special bowl that you Swiss make the fondue in is already set, its inside rubbed all over with garlic. I try to remember its name, you told me many times, but I forgot again.

When you put the cheese, the wine and the cherries in, and begin to slowly stir the mix, I come over and lean into your back, my jaw resting on one of your shoulders.  
“You no sucked me,” I mutter in your ear and watch it turn slightly red, and the spoon shake in your hand.  
“You just go away, all right? You don’t want me fuck this up!” you say, irritated, glancing around to see if anybody heard us.  
I giggle. “Rog, I no eat this cheese, I no care!”  
You cast a side-look at my face. “That is evil. Self-centered asshole!”  
I sigh. “I no like cheese but is the sexiest thing you making fondue. I wish I like it and lick it off you lips when you taste!”  
Some guttural sounds break up from your throat. “Rafa, leave me the fuck alone, please!”

I release you and walk around the mini stove to the opposite end. Then lean over the fondue pot and steal a light kiss from your lips.  
You are startled and jump back a bit, and it makes me laugh. “Who is scaredy cat?”  
You are staring at me frustratedly. “Look, if you let me just finish it, you get a reward, is that okay?”  
“You suck me?” I ask grinning and biting my lower lip in my slight abashment.  
You shrug. “I can, but I know something better!”  
It brings out a loud laugh of me. “I doubt!”  
“Hmm, you sure? And if I got a chocolate fountain for you?” you say, mischievous smile appearing in the corner of your mouth.

It certainly makes my eyes light up just more. I look at you with deep affection and you know your mission is accomplished when I wander off, still grinning.

Previously I looked around more in your apartment and discovered all the decoration you put up on the windows and doors and walls, and of course, the huge Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, right beside the door leading to the balcony, that was also littered in tiny lights. I didn’t see anything of it last evening, I was so out of it.

So now it’s nice to stand at the tree and watch the decoration and ornaments on it. I see some hand-made ones that we bought in Mallorca, when you said you want something to take with you to put on your Christmas tree, to remind you of me and my home. Now I get it all, it was also a part of the plan!

It seems also all in the colours of silver-white, gold-yellow and red and I can add two and two, these are our national colours, and the thoughfulness makes my heart swell.

I perfectly know you don’t have to think of these things, they come naturally, without much ado, because our connection goes so deep that I am always there, somewhere at the back of your mind, if not in the very front of it.  
Sometimes it hits me, I’m not this superior at doing things for you, I don’t always find different ways to please you or gift you or plaster my love for you everywhere, for everybody to see.

I have my own silent and humble ways, kind of the opposite to your flaunted and glamourous actions. But I love your sometimes overdramatic, romantic style. I love it to no end!

I’m deeply in thoughts but I still feel your eyes on me and I turn and see you watching, smiling, as if you knew what’s going on in my mind. I grin, a bit shy, and give a thumb up to you. You answer with a wink and go back to cooking.

Later your sister, Diana, and her husband and their twins arrive and no matter how huge your flat is, it’s becoming very crowded when the toddlers start to run around. They had just learned to walk and they demand constant attention, so there is always someone following them to keep them away from trouble.

Once they see me sitting on the couch, they come climb over me, settle in my lap and one is pulling on my hair, the other is literally chewing my finger.  
They are the exact copy of your childhood pictures, as Diana resembles you so much. Blonde and curly and soft and with wonderful light brown eyes, staring wide at the world.

I’m so happy they are here; I miss my own cousins dearly.

I can see from the corner of my eye that you are standing leaning into the arch that separates the kitchen area from the living room. Your arms folded at your chest, your look on me and the kids. Your gentle smile so beautiful it can shine over all the overdone lightings of Dubai.

Diana comes and pops down on the couch beside us and looks at me expectantly, that I don’t understand just yet.  
She smiles, and I ask, “What?”  
“Let me have the kids, Rafa, and go to him!” she says. “He’s giving you the hungry eyes.” And she is giggling, very much in the manner of yours.

I take a look back at you and get flushed right away.

You push yourself from the arch and walk out to the balcony.

I follow and I’m barely there when you grab my wrists with both hands, pull me to the far side of the balcony, so our folks can’t see us anymore, and slam me into the wall. Your body flushed tightly to mine, your hands lifting my arms and pushing them up above my head.

We moan at the same time and you say you want me so much it aches, and smash your lips on mine, with such force that I’m sure there will be noticable bruises for everyone’s eyes.

You push one thigh between mine and I can’t help it, I rub my hardness on your strong muscles. You make kind of painful noises at the back of your throat and tear your lips from mine to rest your forehead on my shoulder.

We are breathing ragged and you chuckle. “Just how are we going to get out of this now?” you ask, amused.  
I giggle. “You smart, Rog, figure it out!”  
You push your groin more into me. “Feel how hard I am?” you murmur, and it makes me shiver and frustratedly thump my head back into the wall.  
“We can’t go back inside with these!” you add.  
I sigh. “Think of something no sexy!” I say because I’m trying to do just that. “Me beating you at Wimbledon?”  
You groan. “There is nothing _not_ sexy in that, Rafa!”

You make me laugh. I find nothing sexy in you beating me at any court! Or maybe just a tiny bit, but definitely not when we are playing each other in a Grand Slam final. Probably that is why you seem always more distracted in our encounters and I win more. You admitted not even once that sometimes you just stared at me during a point and didn’t try to hit back.

I come back from my thoughts because you wrench your body from mine finally and walk to the opposite end of the balcony. I’m startled and missing your warmth so I take a step toward you to follow when you hold your hand up and look at me strict.  
“Stay right there!” you demand, and turn away from me, leaning on the balcony fence. I hear you inhaling deep, then exhaling, then repeat it all.  
“What a stupid idea to come out here,” you mutter and laugh a bit.  
I join in. It was, indeed!  
“Next time choose a room, Rog!” I snicker.  
“That thought doesn’t help!” you snap.  
“Then think of Nole beating you at Wimbledon?” I offer, laughing.

Your face cramps up and I just know I found the right thing to say. It’s funny enough for both of us starting to laugh uncontrollably and not stopping for minutes.

The door slides open and Uncle Toni comes to see what’s going on.  
“We tried to have sex but balcony was bad place,” I enlighten him, for his biggest horror.

He flees so fast the glass in the doorframe shakes!

We burst out in laughter again.

“This was the best method to cool down,” you admit and come closer to take my hand and lead me back in the apartment. “Later,” you add. “Will find the time and place!”

The whispered words remain in my head all day, as well as the feel of your hot breath in my ear. I’m waiting for crossing your path from then on, anxiously, always keeping an eye on you. But we turn out to be too busy for having any stolen moments.

Hours later when everybody arrived, and we are all seated at the huge dinner table, decorated beautifully and packed with traditional Swiss and Spanish dishes, you stand and give a speech and toast all of us.

You end it with saying _’Esta noche es Nochebuena, y no es de dormir,’_ which is a Spanish phrase, meaning that this is Christmas Eve and not for sleeping, indicating that we are going to feast into next morning.  
The Spaniard side of the table bursts out in whistles and cheers, and the Swiss are smiling and clinking glasses with everyone, too. I just hardly believe this is happening as I look over all the people; your family, my family, and part of my team.

Then my eyes reach you and rest on you, and you are looking back at me, grinning, and I know it’s a cliché but I think that indeed all I wanted for Christmas is right here, because all I wanted was _you_.

Oh, and there is a chocolate fountain, as well!


	10. Part Ten

### DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 25th of DECEMBER, 2011

Around 4 in the morning we are alone again, so the fiesta wasn’t as long as it would be back at home in Mallorca, but I don’t mind. Actually I think it were my longing looks at you that made Mamá and Lynette finally gather everybody and convince them to retreat to their respective hotel rooms.

We are lying on a makeshift bed under the Christmas tree, in front of the fireplace. Because of course you have a fireplace, as fake as it can get, but still a fireplace and still stylish. In the desert. So Rogeristic that I always have to giggle at it.

“What?” you ask, grinning probably only because I am, too.  
“Nada,” I sigh, feeling content. I’m warm and fuzzy inside from the one too many cookies I ate and one too many drinks I had. Somehow I remember the last Christmas we had and I want to share. “You know what…?”  
“You gonna come to Suisserland and play an exhibition match for my foundation?” you chime in, mimicing my broken English, and roll over with laughter when I make a very agitated face.  
“Is no funny at all!” I claim and look around. “Is a pillow somewhere?”

You reach back to the couch and grab one. “Here,” you hand it to me, not stopping laughing, wiping some tiny tears from your eyes.  
“Gracias,” I say and drag it behind me and swing it back at your head with full force.  
“Oww, Rrrrraf, that hurt!” you whine and try to hide your face behind your palms, because I’m hitting you again and again.  
“That for still making fun of me… after one year… when you fuck the shoot up… you… culo… imbécil… retardar… hijo de puta…” I emphasise every cuss with a whack at your head and then your chest later.  
You want to steal the pillow from me and when you can put your hands on it, you hold on for dear life.  
“You didn’t call my mother a bitch again, did you?” you ask while we are fighting for the pillow.  
“No. You the bitch,” I say, and you put up an act as if you were hurt by my words.

This distracts me enough for you to yank furiously on the pillow and pull me onto you with that move. I fall, and we get into full body contact.  
You lock your ankles around my thighs and getting the pillow out of the way, your palms on my cheeks, holding my face.  
“That is not so nice to say, Rafa,” you whisper. “You have such a dirty mouth. What if I try to lick it clean?”

This sounds so much as a bad porn movie, but I can’t giggle because I see that certain light of care and tenderness in your eyes and changed expressions of your face. Mimed violence left your body, you are a radiating mix of gentle hands and smooth skin and loving smile and feverish voice now.

“Missed you so much,” you murmur and lean upward to kiss me.

I bend and we meet half way and your tongue slips in my mouth, and your fingers in my hair, and mine in yours, and I can feel your hardness forming, through our pyjama pants, lining up to my own, getting big and hot.

“Let me take you… Rafa…” you babble in a heated tone, and I can’t do much more than moan at every word of yours, and nod as wildly as you sound.

You try to focus a bit, hold me away from your body. “On the couch… Get on the couch!” you command, shaking your head, and when it feels a bit clearer, you drag yourself up, pushing me with you, and go to fetch the necessities.

“On your back!” you order me from the bedroom and when you are back, I’m waiting for you, naked on the couch, back to the board of it and legs dangling off at the end.  
You stop above me and just stare. I feel extremely shy under your gaze like this and turn my head.  
“No…” you say. “Look at me! Don’t look away, please, I don’t want you to hide!”  
You come closer, kneeling on the carpet and touch my thighs, smoothing them, up to my hips, then back to my knees again.  
“You look beautiful, Rafael,” you state, looking into my eyes and I can’t look away anymore.

You part my legs, slide close and bend over me. We are kissing and your cock nestles just beside my balls, your hands on my hips, mine are circling your body and pulling you in.  
“Imagined this every day… just like this…” you are whispering between kisses and little sucks and bites.  
“Knees,” I mutter and you smile into the kisses.  
“My knees are just right, don’t you worry!” you answer, pressing your lips to mine a last time before you scoot back to leave place for preparation. You squeeze lube onto your palm, warm it, and smear some on my cock.  
“Touch it for me, Raf,” you ask and that said, you slip your finger to my ass, circle my entrance and when finally I take myself in hand, you push in, no stopping, as deep as a finger goes.

I’m so gone I don’t even moan, just try to breathe hard through my nose, pressing my lips together in a tight line, biting inside.

I think you believe it’s not comfortable because you murmur it will get better soon.  
“No better than that. So good,” I say and you make a keening sound when I squeeze your finger inside of me. It all goes so quick, and still too slow. I just want you in me more than anything right now.

The second finger joining feels too full, too soon, but not painful, you are too careful to hurt me, and in no time I’m pushing back on your fingers, stretched perfectly, and trying to aim for an angle where you find my prostate.  
You deliberately avoid to touch it and pull out the fingers. “Palm,” you say and when I hold it up to you, you put lube on it and say, “Coat me!”

Your eyes never leaving mine while I’m covering your cock in the slippery gel, until you have enough, breath ragged, and you are leaning a bit backward to have better access.

When the head slips through the first tight ring of muscles, I arch off the couch and come on my belly messily, out of nowhere.

It surprises you and you pull back, watching me, excitement a bit forgotten. You lie on me, my hands caught between our chests, doing little motions on yours.

We kiss and you smile and holding your cock in one hand, direct it into me. It goes easily, I’m so light and relaxed.  
You groan deep down in your chest, I can feel the vibration at my fingertips.

Then you get up, angle your hips and start to move in an earnest but still somewhat lazy manner. You hold my thighs and I reach for yours, pulling you in deeper.

You are grunting out either my name or random words in Swiss German with every thrusts and my cock is swelling again just by your talking.

Your head is hung and hair dangling around your face. You are sweating. You barely sweat playing a five setter, but you do when you are fucking me.

I’m fully erect when you first catch my spot dead on, scraping it with your cock inside, and you never stop again. I want to close my eyes so bad but I can’t, I must look at you, you are so otherworldly like this, your hips slapping my ass uncontrollably, swears slipping off your lips, mixed with my name here and there.

You reach for my bits clumsily, hand slippery on my skin, but it’s enough, I don’t need much more just now, I cramp down on your cock and I feel you coating me with your come inside. This makes it for me, too, and I pulse in your loose hold, having my second orgasm.

You slump forward, sliding out of me, crushing me into the couch with your dead weight.  
We stay like this for a long time, just cooling off – I’m drawing idle patterns with my fingertips on your back and you are smoothing my side. I could fall asleep like this, despite of the drying fluids between us. I couldn’t care less about that.

But you do, and though reluctantly, you leave me and bring a damp washcloth to wipe our skin clean.

I just notice you didn’t even undress properly before; still having the pants on without ever having been off you fully. It makes me laugh and you ask what is so funny.

I don’t reply, I guess it was a rhetorical question anyway as you don’t seem really interested in hearing an answer. Instead you slump down on the couch beside me and rub your knees.  
“Told you,” I say and you just shrug, pushing close and nuzzling into my neck. You feel like cuddling, I can tell.  
I grab your hand and kiss your fingers and you say those were just in my ass, and I say, that is why I kiss them in the first place. Besides, I know you have just washed them in the bathroom.  
“You too clean for your own good, Rog!”  
“Can’t everybody sweat and roll over in clay all day long,” you retort, snickering.  
I huff. “You love me still.”  
“Definitely.”  
Your smile could transfer electricity for all the bulbs in the apartment, I’m sure of it!

We are moving to the bed finally and I say we didn’t get to open some presents yet, but you think that can wait, now we need to sleep so we can play more tomorrow.

It’s playful, how you say that, but then you turn serious and hug me tight.

I don’t know what came into you so sudden and how to react, so I blurt out a very clumsy ’Bon Nadal, Roger!’, and you look at me, now a tiny secret smile present on your lips.  
“Are you?” you ask me.  
“What?”  
“A happy Nadal.” And you are grinning like a fool because you just know how utterly sentimental that sounds, but you don’t care.  
“I am. Very,” I say.  
“Good. Perfect! That is all I wished for. Merry Christmas, Raf!”

We must have fallen asleep randomly because the next thing I know is that it’s bright outside, I can see it through the windows when I force my eyes open, and I smell coffee and cola cao.

You are coming in the bedroom, tray in hands and a Santa hat on your head. You never cease to amaze me looking just perfect even wearing something so ridiculously out of place, by your standard, I mean.

“Feliz Navidad, Rafael!” you say, smiling and I have to laugh. You don’t have a beard or white hair or a huge belly but you look like you have just arrived from the North Pole with hot cocoa and melting chocolate and cookies.  
“Don’t you laugh at me,” you pout. “I have another hat like this and you are so going to wear it today!”  
“Mmhhmmm, where you left your deers, Papá Noel?”  
“Oh, just out there, they are resting and eating straw up on the roof. They had a rough night around the globe, you see. We can go fly in the sleigh later if you want!” You wink and for a moment I think I actually believe in you having a Santa-sled with reindeers outside. I try to listen carefully, maybe I hear some hooves pounding on the roof.

You sure just know what I’m thinking because you grin and shake your head and say, “No, Rafa, I didn’t go that far. But I can pose for you only in this hat!” And you start to unbutton your green shirt at the neck.  
Out of sudden I don’t know what to react and I’m just not ready, so I hide my eyes behind my hands and press out a weak and stretched ’Nooooo!’

You are giggling madly but stop. “No stripping,” you agree, and nudge the tray toward me on the bed. “Now eat up! Is actually past three in the afternoon so families will be here too soon.”  
I hear you only with one ear because I discover the Swiss pancakes on the tray, neatly folded and garnished with sliced and toasted almond and grated chocolate. They _almost_ look better than you!

You stop talking about dinner and present-opening plans and watch me and point at the food, realizing that is all I see at the moment. “Don’t just look at it, eat! I filled them with Nutella.”

It takes me about two minutes to shove four of them down and to reach for the next when I see you staring at me. “You no eat?” I ask and bite into the fifth pancake.  
“Hm, ja, I wanna eat you but I’m thinking on what to fill you with.”  
I choke on my food and violent choughs shake me. You only grin, eyes glinting.  
“I no tell you the rules, Roger? No talk like that when I eat, drink or play tennis!” I declare again, for the hundredth times. “Or PlayStation!” I add for the emphasis.

You lift your hands in a giving in manner and grab a mug of hot chocolate, lean back to the footboard of the bed and sip it, while you reach out with your other hand to smooth over my ankle under the blanket.  
It is utterly distracting, as well as your tiny moans that indicate how much you enjoy your drink. _’Swiss and chocolate!’_ I think and huff for myself. Then again, I also have an undying love for it, and it’s nice to see there are some things we are so much alike in.

I also reach for my cup of morning drink and when I taste it, it’s kind of strange.  
“What you put in this?”  
You chuckle. “Lindor balls?”  
I roll my eyes. I should have thought. “How much you get of it?”  
“Enough.”  
“Is no fair! I want contract like that too!”  
“You have your Quely cookies, be grateful!”  
“Is no same! I have to sign for Nutella, I spend too much on it.”

You begin laughing uncontrollably, so much that you almost knock over the tray. I ask what is so funny now, and you say, “Nothing. You gonna be getting fat and then I can beat you easily, you know! So I think we should really look into that deal with Nutella! You want me to ask Mirka to contact them?”  
I put down my mug with just a little bit too much effort and it sounds harsh on the wooden tray. “I no want you ask Mirka!” I mutter and I know it’s not nice and I seem bitter.

Mirka is still on your team, like always since I have met you, and she manages every aspect of your professional life, so you don’t have to concentrate on anything else but tennis.

“You are not jealous of her again, right?” you ask cautiously. We were through this topic many times.  
“I no jealous of Mirka,” I say, sighing.  
You are not convinced and I know you are going to push this conversation again. I was stupid to even start it! And today of all days. I’m hopeless with my spontaneous reactions.

But you don’t say anything much, just put the tray on the ground and climb over to me, and lie down, resting your head in my lap. I can’t do anything but pull the hat aside and touch your hair. You turn your head toward me and reach up to pull mine down.

“Come here!” you whisper and I go and kiss you. “Look, I know it’s still weird I stayed so cozy with my ex girlfriend through the years,” you say when we part. “I feel the need to repeat this from time to time, you know. She is like my best friend, and devoted herself to me for a long, long time. It’s the minimum I can do for her to keep her close and pay her well for all she did and does. Besides, she is now taken and happy.”  
“I know that.”  
You nod. “I know you do. Like you also know that it was over between us way before you and me.”  
Now I nod. “Still she was the love of your life back then,” I babble and I’m actually ashamed that I say it just to hear you reassure me that it’s not true anymore.

You realize what’s going on and at any other time you might laugh and say I am acting ridiculous, but right now, somehow you don’t. It’s kind of serious. You are even careful, despite of just stating the obvious all over again.  
“I believed she was, yes. Until some guy with the forehand of the Devil but nappy still around his ass came along.”  
You are smiling beautifully and I notice I’m returning it.  
“You find new ways to tell this part of story, no?”  
“I will always. You know, Raf, I think I never really told you this, but I couldn’t get you out of my head back then, when you beat me first in Miami. You infuriated me so much, but later I thought I just felt something that day, that something will happen. Something will change, you know? And then Mirka was spot on awesome, saying it was only too much sexual tension in me. I wonder how she could know when I myself had no idea! I thought she was kidding.”

I’m getting really fascinated by your lips while you are talking. And with everything else. You look so beautiful, lying in my lap. Your hair is growing and soon it will be that long how I like it the most. You are just hard but soft, and ripped but still lean, and healthy and happy and my face starts to feel quite hot…

“… you listening?”  
I snap out of my freeze. “Sí. I know it. Mirka told.”  
You seem only a bit surprised and not mad at all. “Did she? See, she tells you my secrets! So better you also keep her around!”  
I know you are right. “Is no problem. I like Mirka. Is not her. It is in my head, Rog. Is no untrust. Is just me, you know me, you know I not a confident person!”  
You get up and sit close to me, hugging me tightly to your chest.  
“That’s why we have this chat now and again. It’s okay with me. I don’t think you don’t trust my feelings,” you say softly in my ear. “We are good, ja?”  
I’m nodding into your neck. “You think Mirka really can… what is the word?... lure in Nutella?”  
You holding me away from you to look into my eyes. “That woman is capable of everything human and inhuman but it wouldn’t be her who lures in a sponsor, silly! It’s you! They would break their bones to work with you, you still don’t see?”  
“Sí sí sí! You praise me too much. Toni say is no good for me!”

You burst out of a laughing fit.  
“Since when I listen to Toni?” you ask, amused. “We just have a mutual agreement to disagree, you know that… All right, Señor Nadal, if you don’t eat more, let’s get you refreshed and dressed and go on to make it a happy Christmas!” you clap your hands.  
I pout. “No Christmas morning sex?”  
You look at me bemused. “We already had that. And as I said, family is here in a bit and I sure don’t wanna risk another walking in on us by your Mum! Plus, what morning, Rafa?” You pick up the tray and walk out of the room, softly giggling on the way.

Later we are surrounded by your parents, sister and her own family, my parents and Maribel and Toni. We are having a great, relaxing night, just eating, talking, listening to music and opening gift boxes.

Somewhere on the way I noticed your Mum positioned the twins in my lap and in yours, and I realize she is indeed such a strategist and subtlety is not in her vocabulary when it comes to urging us to have kids.

When she stands and tells Diana to stay and enjoy some free time because she as super grandmother goes back to the hotel and puts the kids in bed, I hold up little Roman for her to take.

“Oh no, my son, you two come with me!” Lynette says. “You didn’t think I’m carrying those two by myself, did you? Get up, Rafael and bring Roman, you Roger, bring Emilie!”  
I hear you grunt and chuckle the same time and whine a soft ’Muuuum…!’

Our fathers are practically rolling over with laughter and our sisters are giggling madly. Not surprisingly, my Mamá gives a thumb-up to Lynette.

We are about to leave the apartment with the twins in our arms, in tow of your Mum, when Toni shouts after her. “Don’t give them ideas about having children while they are both still on Tour!” And we hear the laughing even through the already closed door.  
“Toni is not charmed by you, Mum,” you say to Lynette, but she just huffs at that.  
“I only asked you, boys, help me take the twins to bed!” she says.  
“Of course, Mum!” you nod, not convinced at all.  
“I’m not trying anything here, Roger!” she goes on.  
“Uhum, yes, Mum!” you agree in a fake tone and whisper to me, “It’s really very dangerous having our families together! They are plotting out our lives!”  
I grin and nod, wanting to say something, but your Mum cuts me off. “I heard you, son!”  
So we shut up, duck our heads and don’t push it anymore.

The hotel is practically next door, and soon we are standing at the cradle of the twins, they sleeping sound, kind of curled up to each other. Lynette is nowhere to be seen, so we are alone with them.

You hug me from behind and rest your jaw on my shoulder, and we are watching them.  
“They cute, no? So much like you.”  
I feel you hum your agreement and then suck a deep breath inside. “Rafa, have you ever thought of making it official?” you blurt out so fast I need some time to comprehend what you said. And I do, I think I really do, but still can’t respond with anything better than ’¿Qué?’, and my voice slips higher than I intended.  
“Shhh!’ you say and turn me around and kiss me. “Come on, we don’t want them to wake!”

You pull me out of the room and we say good night to your Mum and walk back to the others. The question is hanging in the air all night, and my head spins, but it’s not an unpleasant and unwanted feeling, only striking.

I smooch my giant Nutella jar I got from you, when we are left alone again by family.  
“This why you laughed much, now I know!” I tell you and you smile.  
“I will keep track of how fast you can eat so much of it. Also while it’s quite full, you can do physical training with it!” you wink.  
“You so practical, Rog. I not know how I ended up with you.”  
“That’s because I’m Roger Federer! And who on Earth would buy you 5 kgs of hazelnut spread for Christmas anyway?”

You are sprawled out on the couch and playing with one of the twins’ toys that was left here probably by mistake. Or how I know our Mums, not. I’m thinking of millions things, but the most is still about what you mentioned in the kids’ room. I don’t know how to bring it up again so I settle with the current topic for now.  
“You think they let me bring it to Australia?”  
You nod. “I’m sure we can do something about that, seeing you are who you are and obviously attached to your Nutella.”  
“Is no true! I’m not that bad,” I huff.  
“Yeah. Like, you are not making love to that jar right now, ja?” you giggle.  
“I can do some things with it if you help,” I offer, and your face turns into a priceless expression of surprise and terror.  
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that!”  
“Sí sí. Cobarde!” I mutter and can’t repress a yawn anymore. It was a tiring day, even though I got up so late. And we both have training again, tomorrow. None of my cells want it, but what has to be done, that has to be done.  
“That sounded too close to coward, you know, so I got it!” you say. “And I’m not. You just won’t put Nutella on my bits, okay? Maybe some other time.”

You stand with difficulties and start for the bathroom. “You coming? Or you stay and sleep with your jar here in the living room?”  
I put my gift back under the tree and get up to follow you. Sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, I watch you brushing your teeth.  
“You not be jealous, Rog, you taste better!” I say, and you choke on the toothpaste. You rinse your mouth and dab it with a towel. It’s very familiar.  
“Is it…?”  
“Yeah,” you grin wide at me and hold the towel up to see the name embroidered in the corner. “Yours from London.”

You hang it and come to me to kneel down and say, “It’s enough of bantering,” and you are kissing me with force and I’m becoming light-headed so fast and grab your pyjama top to hold on it. I’m making desperate noises again but I can’t help it, you turn me on so quickly it hurts.

You push into me hard enough to go backward and hit a button, and water begins to pour out of a tap. This gets us out of the haze and laughing.  
You stand and your groin is aligned with my face. I must lick my lips, seeing your cock through the silk.  
“Don’t even think of it, Rafa!” you say. “I want you to fuck me and come like that!”  
There we go. The brutal bluntness again. I press my fists to my eyes and grunt.  
“I’m waiting. Hurry up!” And that said, you leave me.

Never in my life I rushed in the bathroom so much, and ten minutes hadn’t passed when I’m back with you, in the bed, naked, laying flushed to your back and pressing my cock into you.

You are making the most beautiful sounds in the world and I’m lost in them, lost inside of you, being so disturbed, so hot, too hot, and heady, and still so safe, so composed in my motion, showing you how much I care, how much you mean to me, and how badly I want you to feel as amazing as you make me feel.

I’m feeling feverish and I don’t register I’m talking loud, but I do. Stroking your cock, I’m saying ’Roger’ over and over again, and ’Te quiero,’ and you are moaning so obscenely I think I’ve never heard this voice from you before. It sounds mentally painful, calling out for stinging tears in my eyes.

“Te sientes tan bien, Roger… esto se siente tan profunda… no quiero dejar de… te quiero para siempre Rogelio…” I know what I am saying this time and whether you recognize the words or not, it makes both of us go over the edge.

You wiggle and when I slip out of you, turn in my arms.  
“I love you too, always,” you whisper. “That’s what you said. And something feels deep, too.” And you are giggling already.  
“Dios,” I groan. “You no take me serious.”  
“I do! I do!” you protest. “It was deep!”  
“Nono. Not like that.” I explain and take your hand to put it on my heart. It’s beating rapidly. “Deep in here.”  
That strikes you. Your eyes flicker to mine and then back to your hand on my chest.  
“I said you feel so good and it feel deep and I no want to stop and…”  
“You love me forever. I know.”  
“Your Spanish is better than you let me know,” I say and join in smiling.  
“I know a thing or two.”  
“O mil.”  
“Sí.”

I don’t feel you wanting to leave for a quick shower or wash-up, as you usually do, so I reach for a tissue and I wipe you clean this time. With that and you nestling back in my arms again, we are pretty much settled for sleep.  
It’s a heady feeling when you let me dominate you this much and I’m feeling on top of the world.

“I don’t know what you wanted to tell me when I cut in with the stupid joke about our promo shooting,” you murmur, halfway into dreamland. It’s totally, utterly you to suddenly remember something like that.  
“I also not know why you asked,” I reply, and you cast a sleepy look into my eyes. It assures me that you know what I’m referring to. Was it really the clumsiest proposal mankind ever received, or my imagination played with me?  
“We discuss it tomorrow,” you promise.  
“Tomorrow,” I repeat with a nod.  
“Schloof guet, Rafael!”  
“Que tengas sueños con los angelitos, Rogelio!”  
“Dream of angels?”  
“Have dream with angels, sí. Is more for niños, no? Mamá tell me this,” I explain, and you moan.  
“Children again!”  
We start to snicker and soon full laughter shakes our bodies.  
“We won’t ever live that down at the parents, you know!” you state, and I agree.  
“No matter, Rogi. We do in our own time. No worry!”

You put your head back on my chest, just under my chin, and barely close your eyes when I already feel your breathing even out, and you are out cold.

It doesn’t take long for me following you to fall asleep either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my apologies for the probably incorrect use of Spanish language! If any one of you can and is willing to correct it, please, do so! It'll be highly appreciated! :)
> 
> I would also like to thank you for all the hits and Kudos I have received so far! It means more to me than anyone can imagine.


	11. Part 11

### DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 26th of DECEMBER, 2011

It’s not like a normal Christmas Day for normal people.

We sleep in and wake up to loud banging on the door.  
You are groaning and turning on your other side, facing away from me, and pulling the light blanket on your head to cover it. No sign of getting up on your part for sure. I get it.

So I drag myself out of bed, put on my briefs and walk to the door, where, before I would open it, I hear Paul cussing and Toni mumbling why he was so stupid not to bring the spare key to the flat. This makes me giggle and I open the door wide with a happy face.

They say hello and I return it, still smiling, when Toni says I should erase that from my lips because I have no reason to feel cheery, being late from training.

“Do you even know what time it is, young man?” he sneers at me, while Paul is looking around, sure for you.  
“Bedroom,” I point there, and he immediately is on his way and I just know you are in for a very unpleasant wake-up call.  
I look back at my uncle. “You must be so harsh?”  
“I told you, Rafael, be there at 11 prompt! And what time is it? 11:30. Half an hour late, boy! So you have another half an hour to do whatever you do to be ready and grace us with your presence at the court! 12, prompt! ¿Comprende?”

I make a face but don’t say anything, is better to be silent when Toni gets like this. And I’m distracted by the noises from the bedroom; some muttered tone and then Paul saying the same as Toni did, that you have half an hour.

Toni is leaving and Paul is coming out of the room, too, dragging your blanket after him on the floor and casting a nasty look at me on his way, then throwing it on the couch and joining my uncle. They, I don’t know who exactly, shut the door behind them with the loudest thud.

I’m dashing for the bedroom to find you sitting at the edge of the bed, head hung low between your shoulders. You are deliciously and completely naked and I have to force myself not to think of anything inappropriate at this moment.

I’m climbing behind you and hug you tight. “I make breakfast, no?”  
You lean back into me. “Was he bad?” The question is clearly about Uncle Toni.  
“No,” I giggle. “He was funny.”  
You start to laugh. “Yeah, Paul, too! I told him I’m naked but he said fuck if he cares and he took the blanket!”

You turn your head and we kiss good morning, then brush teeth and refresh together in the bathroom and eat some light meal, only cereals and fruits and you have a coffee and I drink my cola cao.

The tennis court is just around the corner, so we are there 5 minutes early and you hold me back and say we have time and you are kissing me, not caring about some people on the streets and cars passing by.

We are being worked hard at practice. It’s not like it was back in Mallorca, when you weren’t fully into it. Now we are supposed to give a run for it to each other, and we do.  
Toni is merciless in either way, and I know Paul also doesn’t know pardon, but joined, these two are lethal. I can’t feel my thighs, we are doing so much stop-and-go motion while chasing balls.  
This is serious business now, and I get a picture of just how much forward you are in preparation. You are bombing serves in every corner possible, and I know many of them go with close to 200 km/h, if not more.  
I’m still newbie with my freshly modified racquets, having more weight put on their top head, but I would be getting there if only my shoulder let me.

It pisses me off I can’t just stand here and watch you do your job. It’s definitely bad for me to practise with you close by.

For some wasted moments I recall many occasions from the past when we were set to hit at adjacent courts at tournaments, and it was not your team coming, or fans gathering that made me know you arrived.

I could _feel_ your presence. Even before you actually stepped on court.

Many times when it happened, I saw you stop training after a while, and sit around and watch me. Your fans there got pissed off at you not doing anything but I felt hot and pleased inside. You were always shameless in your actions when it came to show me you were interested. I just needed so much time to realize it was not only my game that made your eyes drawn to me before. Those were interesting and exciting times. I’m sure I often came off as a happy and bouncing puppy back then, just because the greatest looked at me.

Toni shouting ‘it was enough’ brings me back from my thoughts. He mutters I’m useless anyway, so better we go on to eat a proper lunch and do physical training later.

Only in the evening can we relax, surrounded by family once again, having a huge meal and warming conversations during.

Later I see you chatting Toni – who is gifting us with his most charming self when we are private –, about how we are supposed to beat Nole. Sí, tennis is what he can’t just put aside, regardless our off-work status.

Soon they are gone all but Maribel. She hangs around a bit longer, something hidden behind her back.  
You are putting away dishes in the kitchen so she comes closer and asks, “Didn’t you miss something under the tree, bro?”  
Suddenly it hits me! Where was the quotes collection indeed?  
Maribel pulls it in front and smiles teasingly. “I hid it till now, didn’t want all our families be there when you open it. And maybe you don’t want Loverboy to see either. Though I think you could really read it with Roger, this time.”  
“Read what with Roger?” you ask, coming behind me out of the blue.

Then I have a good guess that Maribel did it on purpose, she wanted you to know about these gifts. And she is already handing it to you, and it’s too late to protest, so I just groan. There goes my last secret! You can never ever trust a woman. Not even your Mamá or sister. So sad.  
I sigh, resigned.

You open the little handmade book and take a look. You seem confused first, but then wide-eyed, obviously impressed. The booklet is very colourful this year, 2011 written on the cover in tiny glued-on shells and the 0 is a sea star. Sissy outdid herself.  
“You made this?” you ask Maribel and she nods, so proud. “It’s awesome!”  
She is radiating, your compliment making her pleased and giggly. “Thank you! If you are interested in more, ask Rafael for the previous ones! So now, night, guys! Have fun!” she winks and after quick pecks on our cheeks, she is storming out of the door.

I understand just now that she _really_ planned this, every moment of it.

You hop down on the couch and are seemingly lost in things written there. “Look at this!” you say and show me the actual quote. “Remember?” And you are reading it out loud, very much like Maribel used to do.

**’’Beating Novak today was maybe a good birthday gift for Rafa because he lost his four previous matches against Novak. I’m going to play against Nadal, my main rival, in another Grand Slam final. We live for these moments…’’**

I of course remember that well. It was after your win over Nole in the Roland Garros semi-final, on my birthday.  
“Then you went and beat me in the final. You are always such an ungrateful piece of shit, Raf!” you say and laugh.  
I can’t even say a word just whack you on the head.  
“Ow, hey! You know I’m right!” you try to back yourself up. “I hand you the win on a silver tray and what do you give me in exchange, eh?”  
I shrug. “Ass?”  
“Aww, indeed. I would take it you know, but I’m too busy reading this greatness what I talked about you, thank you very much!”

I don’t like you like this at the moment. I’m tired of the teasing and mocking, so I sit beside you and nuzzle your neck. So much better! You smell amazing and all I want is to feel you and breathe you in. Maybe touch, too.  
You are taken aback a bit but lean into me a second later. “Now, you didn’t take me serious, ja?” you murmur and brush your lips to my forehead while speaking. Your hot breath on my skin makes me aroused instantly.  
“No. Tired. Can we go to bed, Rogi?”  
You look at me and then close the little book, and taking my hand, you lead me to the bathroom and on to the bedroom after we showered and brushed teeth.

I’m laid down on the bed and kissed all over, every inch of my body touched carefully, and you swallow my cock when you reach it and suck it very slow until I’m close. Then you open your mouth and hold out your tongue and lay it flat on, jerking me with your hand, and I come like this, shaking, looking at your face, pouring the bitter liquid down your throat for you to drink.

I taste myself on your lips when you come up and kiss me. “Go to sleep!” you whisper and I suddenly recall we said we would talk about that certain question today, but I can’t form coherent sentences anymore, so I accept the unchangable and give in to the call of dreams.

Half asleep, I feel you stir beside me and get in a comfortable position, arm and leg thrown across my body.

You feel so content, so serene.

So right.

### DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 27th of DECEMBER, 2011

Carlos Moyá comes to visit today and he joins in for a hit, much to your dislike.

It’s not that you don’t like him, because you do, you two get along rather well.  
It’s only that bloody jealousy and bad memories adding to it, and you always get closed up when he is around, even though you stay friendly enough and tolerate him.

The bad memories come from an old case, that happened just after we got together, and everything was so new. It was our first tournament spent as a couple, and practically nobody knew a thing about us.

One day we went to practice so early, at an unholy hour, just to have the courts for ourselves, because that was the only time when fans hadn’t crowded them yet, and watched every movement of the players.

So even you made the sacrifice of getting up so early despite of it having been unprecedented before. We just wanted a nice and relaxed hit together, but we stumbled into Carlos on our way and he came with us to the court. He wasn’t an active player anymore back then, he only came here for the fun, wanting to hit some with me again for old times’ sake.

It wouldn’t have bothered you at all. What did was that he had no idea about us and he kept acting like always, kept touching me, holding me, got playful with me, because that was the dynamics we had. Though I tried to warn him not to, but he obviously didn’t get the message.

And at one point you just had enough and came between us, pushed Carlos a bit away, not violently, but with fair elan to make him stumble backward and look at you, then at me, surprised.

I was about to get angry with you when Carlos came back at you and said something like ’what the fuck’, but then he suddenly stopped in motion and stared at us, and said, “Oh, no, you two so got together finally!”  
And with that he was laughing hard and went to dance around the court like some imbecil. It was really scary. You even asked what his problem was.

Not much later Carlos said he understood and you shook hands, and it was forgotten, and he left. But I wasn’t done with you. This was the first time I had to sit you down and explain that you can’t ever do this to my friends. There would be times when I get like this with them, and it’s part of our Spanish or Mallorquín mentality and habits. We only fool around, and yes, whatever you want or call appropriate, I would still play video games in my underwear with my Armada.

You claimed you got it. Still, Carlos irks you till this day and I don’t think it will ever change.

Your biggest fun today is to challenge him and bagel him, how we say. Because it’s easy to beat an ex player, no? Even if he is pretty much in shape even after years out of the Tour. I don’t ever let you live it down how pathetic you can be like this!

“It still flatters you when I get possessive,” you say in the evening while we are cooking pasta and grilled fish and chicken.  
“Maybe. But no matter, is unnecessary, no? I no make fuss about you and Stan Wawrinka hug and roll on the court, no?” I shrug.  
You watch me, knife held still in your hand and a half-sliced olive in the other, on the chopping board.  
“What?” I ask, your staring seriously bothering me, not in a bad way though.  
“I’m so hot for you, Rafa!” you say, sort of almost moaning my name, and I drop the wooden kitchen spoon.  
“¡La madre que te parió!” I mutter and hear you giggle when I bend to pick it up.  
“Which means?”  
“Bastard. Motherfucker.”  
You seem kind of pleased. “Well, that just makes me even hotter for you! All the cursing you do all the time is so sexy!”  
I sneer at you. “I can not believe you! Always do this to me when I am beside something dangerous!” I complain and gesture toward the stove.  
“All right, all right, I’m gonna behave, you big sissy!”

You actually do. We finish making the food and eat it while discussing things about the Players’ Council issues. We don’t reach any agreement again, so switch the topic to the upcoming exhibition tournament in Abu Dhabi. You say we should drive there in the mornings and come back home when we are done because it’s only a short drive and it’s not worth checking in the hotel there.

I agree, especially because this means we can leave for the other city on the 29th, being that the first day when we both have duties. So we can stay put here for longer and that is always a good thing in our rushed and travel-packed lives. I don’t even remember the last time I stayed at the same place for so long like I did now in Mallorca and here with you!

Everything is settled by the time we cleaned up the kitchen and you ask if I want to watch a movie or maybe some sports on TV.

I don’t. I take your hand and lead you to the couch. “Just sit!” I say and push you down.  
You seem slightly confused. “What’s up, Rafi?”  
I sit, as well, and turn to fully face you. “What was it about making it official?” I blurt out, very fast, because I’m bothered by this whole topic and feel the blush reaching my eartips to turn them bright red.

Stunned by the sudden question, that is what appears in your facial expression.  
“Oh, err… yeah,” you are trying to find the words. “We didn’t have time to talk about that yet, right, with all the celebrations and now training and…”  
“You stalling, Rogi!”  
You look at me startled. “It was the worst mistake of mine to ever teach you this word!” you mumble.  
It makes me laugh, and you follow, too. Then get serious again. “Look, it was stupid, I know!”  
“It was?” I ask, just a bit mocking.  
“Oh please, don’t play so hard! I wanted to ask you about this, to talk about this, to know if you had ever thought about something like this! I was just silly and went on wrong about it and I know now you think… you think…”  
“That you proposed,” I finish your sentence. “Sí.”  
You sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”  
“You not?” I am a bit bummed, not only acting like it.

You never failed to look me in the eyes, not even now, and at this moment I feel you look just a bit harder and see into me deeper, if that is possible.  
“Rafa, don’t give me the lost puppy eyes! You know it’s not like that!” you say vehemently.  
I bit my lower lip to suppress my smile. You are adorable when you are so flushed. “You no ask something like that before you propose, no?”  
“Guess not. But I only wanted to know if you think of it…”  
“¿Por qué?” I interject.  
“Because I do,” you say, without falter, and with the most beautiful shy smile playing on your lips.  
“Oh.” That is all I can produce as a reaction. I was out to taunt you a bit, about how you didn’t think through what you asked, and now you shut me up spectacularly and fast.  
“You know, I uhm… read about it. We can marry in Spain and have a civil union and registered partnership in Switzerland. Or maybe vice versa, I’m quite nervous right now so I might mix them…”  
“No. No, you right. Is full on marriage in Spain.”  
You grin and forget to be bashful. “You knew.”

Why didn’t I know in advance, if I start to discuss this, I will be the blushing and disturbed one in the end? How do you always stay composed and I become shaken? Whatever, can I lose anything? I don’t think so.

“Was long time ago, when I heard, I thought I can marry you in my homeland, no? If you ever look at me like that… More than friends… So I remember when they made the law.”  
I stare at the carpet, it’s really fascinating. And your socks, too. They are kind of yellow. Sí, pastel yellow, very light, almost white, but if one really, really takes a proper look at them…  
You reach under my jaw and lift my face. “That was in 2005, Rafa.”  
I’m trapped. “Sí…”  
“Oh God, just come here!” you say and pull me in tight. “I’m kind of sorry for making you wait for me so long,” you whisper in my hair.  
“No, is not bad. If we are together sooner, is no good, sí? Is no good time. It happen when it happen. Why be sorry for the past, no? It had reason. You did good, so no worry about that, Roger!”  
You scoot back. “You are wise, you know that?”  
I huff it off, but you insist. “No, really, often times you sum things up like it was the most natural in the world! And with such ease, such simple words.”  
I snort. “Bad English you mean?”  
You ‘tsk’ at me. “That’s not the case at all. You have good English to realize when I really propose, you’ll see!” you state, then I can see something occured to you suddenly.  
Indeed, you voice it right away. “Why is it me who is supposed to propose anyway?”  
“I not know,” I shrug. “You want me do it?”  
Laughter shakes you. “This is getting hilarious! You don’t ask something like that before you actually propose, do you?”  
There we go, now you turn the mocking tone on me completely. And the giggles.

I’m staring at you, not being able to take my eyes off of your brows and the unruly lock of hair that falls into your forehead. You trace your lips with your tongue to wet them and that tiny movement sends shocks to my body. I reach out to touch your cheek and you close your eyes and lean into my palm.

Skin contact is like some electric wave and we are both shaken by it and there is no way back.

“Make love to me, Roger?” I ask and you throw yourself on me, groaning, and we are kissing wildly, messily.  
In no time my legs are up on your shoulders and you are thrusting into my body hard, quite viciously, then pulling out slower, on and on, your cock rubbing my sweet spot with every move and making me come so fast you hardly got in me two minutes ago and I’m already undone, unravelled under your weight and power.

Faintly I think of people always claiming they see white and such when pleasured so intensely, but all I see is you. Your concentrated face, frozen into some kind of dark expression – you, pounding into me, chasing your orgasm.  
A man on mission who is the only one ever conquering me so thoroughly.

When you come inside of me, shuddering and getting goosebumps all over your skin, you are laughing a bit hysterically, on a high, and it sounds triumphant.

I would say, should I use tennis terms, that if I was a Slam, you would win one each and every time you take me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's irrelevant but I altered Charly Moyá's retirement date a bit - I needed this to fit in the story.


	12. Part 12

### DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 28th of DECEMBER, 2011

The Day of Innocents! When we, Spaniards, pull pranks on each other.

I’m up at dawn to do sillies I planned, then I go back to bed and watch you sleep for a little while until I am asleep again.

When I wake up in the morning and come out of the bathroom, I find you sitting Indian style at the shoe-holder, with a bunch of shoes around you and in your lap, trying to untie your tennis shoes you use from the other pairs.

“I always forget it’s that time of the year,” I hear you mumble for yourself and I have to snicker.  
You look behind. “I would say good morning, Raf, but you have fucked mine up so better you stay away from me!”  
My giggles turn into full on laughter. “I love you, too, Roger! Have a nice day!”  
I wink and you grawl frustrated and go back to undo the big bow of shoelaces I created.

At practice you find two of your racquets ’damaged’, headbands braided through the strings tightly. It was hell of a work on my part!

“Jesus, Rafa, I can’t believe you!” you scream and Paul looks at your equipment and barely can keep his face straight.  
“You better cut those off and start training,” he says in a forced calm tone.  
You mutter I am a bastard and look like you are going to cry for your precious headbands. Like you didn’t have 20 of each colour.  
I can tell you just have enough of this glorious day of surprises.  
“If you are so pissed off, prank him back,” Paul offers.  
“He never do today,” I explain. “He do on April 1st. Today he endure me.”

You throw aside your braided racquet and take a clean one to prance on court with it.  
I smooth your arm shortly when you are passing me and you suddenly reach back to catch the back of my neck and pull in my head to give an angry kiss, tongue forced into my mouth.

I can’t help it, I moan loud and want more, so much more, and want it now. But your lips are gone as fast as they came, and you still hoding my neck, turn me around and give me a crude push. I stumble away.  
“Go do your thing,” you say, smirking, and then you walk away.

I’m left here, utterly hot and red from head to toe, mentally unable to continue whatever I was doing before. You prank me back, in your own way.

In my pheripherical sight there is Toni, gaping at me. “Didn’t I tell you no touching and whatnot at practice?” he lectures me.  
“He kissed me!” I retort. “What can I do? So tell that to him!”  
“He is not my concern, son! You are! Now go over there and warm up and stretch! This year! We don’t have time to waste!”

Indeed, we wasted some, because soon my shoulder begins to ache and I can’t continue anymore. Another day of no preparation.

I would be getting depressed if it wasn’t for the pranking, but as it is, I bring out the ball gun when your practice is over and stand across the net.

You are walking off court and the first ball hits you on your right upper arm.  
You cry out, though it wasn’t such a bad clash, and stare at me with wild eyes.  
“You absolutely won’t do that to me again, Rafael Nadal!” you state in raised voice.

I giggle and aim the gun again and shoot. You can’t do else but protect yourself with your racquet and hit the ball back. You try to hit it to my body but after the first, the balls come too fast, so you can only put the racquet in the way and kill their swing.

It’s so much fun I can’t stop laughing and it hardens to aim the gun properly, but I don’t want to really hurt you anyway. It soon runs out of balls so I have to recharge it and when you see I go get it filled again, you run to me, clearly with the intention of taking the toy away.

“Give it to me!” you demand when you reach me, and grab it to pull.  
“Nooooooo, stoooop!” I shout and as I don’t give in, we fight for it and soon drop to the ground and rolling over.

The gun is not important anymore when you get hold of me and pin me down with all your weight. It falls out of my hand and you don’t reach for it either. It’s not that you are so much stronger to always win these so-called fights. I just get so overpowered by your close proximity and aura and heady scent and intense eyes and smug smile that I don’t want to put up a fight anymore. I want to enjoy your body pressing down on mine, digging into all the right places deliciously.

Free hand slipping into your hair, I grin up to you and I think you are going to kiss me but you bend your head and in the last second, bite my jaw instead.

I give a needy moan and arch up into you. You are getting hard and it drives me crazy.  
“Can’t do much here,” you say, your voice hoarse with arousal.  
“¡Joder!” I curse.  
“Indeed,” you agree, and we slowly pull ourselves together and get up, helping each other.

I give you a quick peck on your lips and we grab our stuff and bags and leave for having a shower and a meal.  
Later you go on to have physical training and I’m getting my massage that is supposed to help on my shoulder, too.

I lament on the speeding time, the quickly passing days.

The first tournament starts tomorrow, I can’t believe that 2011 is over. Abu Dhabi belongs to the new year’s schedule, even if, calendar wise, it’s held from the 29th to 31st of December.

We go out to have dinner with family, for the last time while we are all together like this, because your sister, her husband and the twins are leaving for home, and my Mamá and Maribel are leaving for work and school tomorrow.  
Having a really good time, I often catch myself watching you chat with them animatedly, loving the feeling of your hand holding mine most of the time during the meal.

You are so casual about showing affection, always touching me, smiling back at me, leaning into me when you say something only for my ears to hear. And you do that a lot, and it’s usually a loving word or just a brush of your lips. When we stand up from the table, I’m seduced enough to not see the world around me. Only you, you, you. I’m captivated; your scent filling my nose, your radiating heat sipping through my skin, deep into my veins, getting me high like some drug.

I have to hold on your shirt sleeve for support when you tell me we should say farewell to our families and retire back home, as we have quite an early wake-up call. First I don’t really catch your words.

“Are you all right, Raf?” you ask, concerned.  
I shake my head to clear it. “Sí. Is the wine.”  
“Yeah, sure,” you chuckle, and I don’t think you believe me, but leave it at that.

Saying goodbye for a long time is painful. Though we all are used to it, it seems to remain a hard emotional task for good. I especially loath to be apart from my little sister because she is only 20 now and in such a growing, spurting phase that every time I see her again, I feel her being more mature and opinioned and awesome.  
So, Maribel and I are hugging tight for the longest time and promise again that we will call everyday.

It’s less difficult with Mamá, she is cool about it.

Then I’m suddenly in Diana’s arms and she is saying I vowed to take care of you and weirdly this is what crashes my heart a little bit. I know you won’t see her and her family for a longer time.

At least we have some of them staying and following us on the Tour. Your parents and my Papá. And Toni, naturally. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t see him as my Uncle but at those moments he usually has a ball in his hand and he is not hesitant to throw it at me to wake me up, out of my dreamy state.

I’m sitting in bed with Ozee and we are watching TV when you come out of the bathroom, stand at the joining doorframe and stare at me heatedly, so it’s really hard to mistake and not look back at you.  
“Did you just salt my toothbrush, Rafael?” you ask in a faked calm tone.  
And there is the used brush in your hand, paste smeared on it, had obviously been in your mouth.  
I offer a sheepish grin to confirm it.  
“What did I say last year? Anything but the toothbrush!”  
I giggle. “You so sensitive with toothbrush.” Actually I sort of forgot I did that before we left, so as a half surprise even for me, I find the situation even funnier. “Wash it, no?”  
You stare me down and then storm back to the basins. I hear you washing it aggressively and obviously trying to taste it again, because soon you shout at me, “It’s still salty, you dumbass!” and then, “April can’t come soon enough!”

I climb out of bed and pull a spare toothbrush out of the nightstand drawer, going after you.  
“Here, I got you a new! Same brand, same hard, same colour. Good enough? Knew you will be mad.”  
“Why don’t you just not ruin the old then?” you ask.  
I shrug. “I not know. You are funny.”  
We make peace and I go back to bed.

When you come, too, you say Ozee has to leave because he takes up your whole place.  
“Nooooo Rogi! Ozee stays. If you can no stand him, why you got me him, no?”  
“Fine,” you huff and taking the least possible place, you lie down on the bed, back turned on me. “I can’t believe you brought him with you!” you are mumbling under your nose.  
“You no like Ozee? But Ozee likes you, Roger!” I play on and scoot close to you, poking your shoulder with the bear’s huge paw.  
You ignore it and I won’t have that. I put the toy aside, still in the bed though, and poke you with my finger. “Rafa likes you too, Roger!”  
You groan and it turns into a strange, irritated laugh. “You are such an intolerable kid!”  
I come so close that I’m flushed to your body. “I not a kid,” I whisper in your ear and slip my hand to your stomach, then lower, right into your boxer shorts.

Cupping your bits in my palm and hearing you hiss and whimper, feeling you harden instantly by my simple touch makes me so aroused that I hardly think of else than shoving my cock into you. Or whatever, just please, I need to come and need it soon!  
“I want you,” I moan, barely coherent.  
“I’m yours, Rafa,” you return the moan.

Turning you around to face me and taking our shorts out of the way, I line our hard-ons up to each other and wrap my hand around them, squeezing. You lean close. We kiss and your hand curls around mine, stroking us entwined with mine toward completion. You are sounding obscenely animalistic when orgasm takes you, head thrown back, your neck spread in front of me, lips parted in a very loud moan.

Your hand automatically slides onto my cock and I let myself go with your very first touch, let my come mix with yours between our bodies.

It’s way too messy; with my last braincell still working I clean us up with some tissues, then you, gratefully looking at me, bring my head onto your chest and when I settle down as close as I can, I feel you absently stroking my cheek and hair, and sleep randomly claiming us.

“See, we all have space,” I mutter, and I hear you giggle and the last I feel are smiley kisses on my nose, eyebrows and forehead.

### ABU DHABI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 29th of DECEMBER, 2011

Mirka is driving us to Abu Dhabi in the morning, she at the wheel and you and I in the backseats.  
She arrived this morning, right before we had to leave for the tournament.

I’m still pretty sleepy, despite of having a good rest at night, so I lie down on the backseat, head in your lap, and close my eyes.

You are softly chatting with her and it comforts me.

When she arrived and you hugged her so warmly, and touched her just how you always did when she was your partner, I didn’t get upset. It’s really clearly only in my mind when I do. Mostly I understand that years spent as close as two being can get does this to you. After such a deep relationship, your loving feelings won’t disappear if you parted on good terms. And I don’t even want that. I know she only wanted the best for you, otherwise she wouldn’t have given you that last push to go and get me back then. Because it was she who did that.

I hear you two speaking and it’s about us. Like your talk was reflecting my thoughts.

Mirka says we are the sweetest couple who she had ever seen and you say, “Shut it!”  
I almost burst out in laughter.  
“Are you happy?” you ask her and she answers the most reassuring ’yes’.

She talks about their honeymoon they took at the end of the year and I get to know Mauritius is sure amazing and we have to visit it one day. She got married not long ago, we both attended the wedding, on top of that, you were her husband’s Best Man. Because Mirka wanted you there, greatly involved, but also wanted tons of Bride’s Maids, so this was the best solution, and David, her man, just agreed. It was the biggest wedding ceremony I have ever seen, and that says a lot, as Spaniards hold huge celebrations.

“Do you think it’s really possible to love David as much as you loved me?” you ask her, and I’m sure you two were over this a few times before and you only want to hear it again, to assure you.  
Mirka laughs. “Do you think you love Rafa as you loved me?”  
You say, “More.”  
“See? That’s also my answer!” she replies, sounding genuinely happy and carefree.

I don’t hear more because your hand slowly playing with my hair feels so good and calming that sleep takes over me.

Arriving in Abu Dhabi, to the tennis center, you shake me awake, and soon we are separated to play tennis clinics with groups of kids and hold autograph sessions.

It’s always major fun, I love to be with children and meet my fans. But I’m still a bit grumpy, I know it’s not fair to fans but I can’t help it. I thought our duties would collide and we would do everything together. Instead of that, suddenly all I got was a light kiss and you were taken away from me to another court.

I groped you so hard when they told that, that I’m sure you will have bruises on your arms. And because of my silly behaviour and saying bye too long, as if we wouldn’t meet again in a couple of hours, I was also late for the clinics. Then it hit me how selfish I was and began to concentrate on my job and enjoy my time with the kids.

When it’s all over, I can have you back in my arms and I don’t plan to release you anymore today.  
Fortunately the organizers think alike and I don’t have to.

Right before the real competition on court begins with the first day session matches, we meet up with all the other four players attending, Gaël, Jo-Wilfried, Nole and Ferru (pretty good company), to have the official photoshoot done.

We joke around and I start to feel at home, like I always do in Abu Dhabi, after a certain time. Even Novak is kind of funny. Though I notice your spine stiffen when he again seems a bit desperate to seek my attention.  
He always tried to be a good friend of mine and we get along just fine. But then it turned out he actually fancied me and was infuriated by you taking me.

Nowadays he still tries to be close to me but only carefully (except when not), and keeps a certain distance from you, despite of being friendly. This always reminds me that men among each other are difficult. We also have our own cozy hierarhcy and you are definitely on top of it, and I am the untouchable, being your mate. Everybody keeps that in mind.

Honestly, it’s clearly like with animals!

The 2012 tennis year certainly seems to be starting when I have such a thought, looking at our friends and rivals.

The shoot is wrapped up and then we – as in you and I –, are picked up at the complex and taken out for lunch, and later to a fabulous place at the gulf, with the _Sheikh Zayed Mosque_ in the background across the water. Here we are being taught to do calligraphy in Arabic. It’s very hard as I don’t have anything much artistic in my veins, but I try to keep up with you.

This is the point where wanting to learn Arabic again occurs to you, so the little boy who teaches us translates some basic lines for you and you memorize them right away.

Meanwhile I’m watching you and laugh when you get frustrated with the language because it’s by no means easy, and silently say thanks to all above that I can be by your side even at work, and we still can’t get bored of one another because we have to compete, as well, that pretty much guaranteeing the excitement.

I love to be a tennis player.

This whole event is naturally surrounded by the press, jounalists and photographers hanging around taking pictures and notes all along. But it doesn’t bother me; it is as close as it can get to spending time with you at a tournament while doing official tasks.

And nothing upsets me while I can feel content warmth coming off you and engulfing me.  
I see you watching me closely and I send a toothy smile toward you, so you know my mood is perfect.  
You call me a goof and my grin only widens.

We leave this scene in really high spirit and go back to the center for practice.

It’s quite late when we are having a hit together and you say maybe we miscalculated this, so should try to stay instead of going back home to Dubai.

Mirka and Benito are coming to tell us we are invited for dinner by the tournament boss and Sheikh Zayed himself, who is the ruler of Abu Dhabi. Knowing these first formal but later becoming informal dinners last quite long, it practically decides about our staying.

So Mirka drags Benito along with her to manage things like hotel rooms and hitting schedule and all that.

In the late evening we are indeed very informally sitting around in the luxury Presidental Suite of Hilton with the Sheikh, and you two are in enthusiastic discussion about the tournament and ticket sales and just tennis as a game. Sometimes I chime in, he is such a generous man and always curious of my opinion, too. Other than that, he is always charmed by your personality and I’m absolutely sure he cheers for you every year we play here.

I don’t mind. I am your biggest fan after all.

He tells us that our previously booked rooms are of course still available so we don’t have problems anymore with that either.

In the hotel we check the results and get to know Nole is going to be your opponent and Ferru is mine. It’s fine. We will see tomorrow, no? 

“Good day, no?” I ask when we are in bed.  
“Great,” you grin. “Now if we shouldn’t play tomorrow that would be even better! Could go see stuff.”  
“Don’t be like that, we are paid for this!” I remind you.  
You laugh. “Yeah. And you are paid higher than me, defending champ! It’s such a blow to my ego!”  
I hit your chest. “Sí, I beat you in the final last year. I deserve it, no? So shut up!”

And you do and kiss me good night.


	13. Part 13

### ABU DHABI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 30th of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m hanging around at your pre-match warm-up session in the morning, then we walk back in the locker room together.

Everything is relaxed. The weather is awesome, if a bit windy. We have done some press previously so now we are left to do our job, tennis that is, and you – being in a happy mood – joke with Nole before you two have to go out to the court and play.  
I’m sure he thinks it’s his best day because you are so kind to him.

“You come out to watch?” you ask me when it’s time for you to leave.  
I nod. “Sure. Somewhere at the end, no? I go warm up first.”  
“Cool,” you say and walk out.

We are hitting with Ferru at the neighbouring court while your match is progressing. It absolutely doesn’t bother us that we are going to face each other in an hour or so, it’s just nice to warm up with your opponent and friend. Natural among us, Spaniards.

I’m happy I play Ferru.

My pre-match cold shower has just been taken, hair barely blow-dried, clothes hardly put on when there is a fuss on the corridor and the door opens and you strut in with your bags on shoulders.

I stare, probably gaping.  
“Cat stole your tongue, sexy one?” you ask, smiling.  
“I rush to go out just now!” I say. “Is over? Beat him so fast?”  
You are laughing. “He beat me so fast! 6-2, 6-1, was banging me down on the baseline, clearly wanting to mark his #1 territory.”  
I’m sure giving you the WTF face because your expression answering mine is funny. “You let him, no?” I guess.  
“No. No. He just…” and you gesture with your hand and falter off.   
I make a pained noise. “You sure no take it serious again, Roger!”

Some officials come and give the warn of 10 minutes left. I briefly look at Ferru who is turned kind of inward at the other side of the room. He glances back at me and winks.

You and I, we sit down on a bench, close. I don’t know what to make out of this.

You lean into me and nudge my arm. “Hey, not that I care! It’s an exho, Raf. Practice for the first real tournament, and you know that well! So quit the drama, will you?”

Novak chooses this moment to trudge in, smug grin wide on his face.  
I congratulate him and his smile swifts into a genuine one.  
“You know how it is, Rafa,” he says. “He got the girl, but I get the trophy!”  
We both are looking at him in awe and suddenly all three of us burst out in roaring laughter. We can hardly stop. I can hear even Ferru snickering from the distance.

I have to go out in a couple of minutes, so Nole leaves us for ourselves a bit.  
“What I do now, Rogi?”  
“What do you mean what you do?”  
“I wanted to play you, no? You wanted to play me!” It really makes me sad it might not happen.  
You shrug. “First you get rid of the frozen sneer! It’s David you play, you don’t need to scare him off and you can’t even, I guess.” You giggle at your own joke. “You just play, right? Do not want not to win! I will seriously hit you if you do that and don’t forget I’m gonna be out there and see and realize if you try to lose!”

I groan. I completely forgot as it is only an exhibition event, you are going to be out and watch me. Now I really can’t fake anything to begin with.

When we are at the door with Ferru, Novak appears and actually wishes us good luck, looking only me in the eye. He clearly prays for playing against me in the final so I’m supposed to win this semi in his book.

I glare at him and pick up an abandoned wet towel and throw it at him hard. “I am no girl, hijo de puta!” It slaps on him heavily and pinches.  
I hear him cry out and whine when I’m already out of the locker room, and hear you tell him, “He is indeed no girl! Wanna hear details?”  
“God, I’m so sick of you two!” he shouts and it makes me walk out on the court sporting the widest grin ever.

During the warm-up with David we have fun; I accidentally hit him with a ball and he pretends it hurting and bruising so much he has to bend over and check under his shirt if his side is all right. The audience is celebrating me as if I had hit a tricky winner. I need all my self-control to stop the giggling and take it all seriously again.

You sneak into my box when we are half an hour into the match and stay all along to be the witness of my spectacular lose to Ferru. It is fast, one hour and ten minutes, in two straight sets.

Sometimes when I glance up at you, I see you hiding your face behind your hands and giggle or comb through your hair slightly frustratedly everytime I hit weird shots.

I swear I didn’t try anything! My condition is not on the top, my practice so far had been shit, I have difficulties with my weighed racquet… I could go on.

It’s not that I really wanted to lose! Though I didn’t want to win either.

You only shake your head when we meet after but can’t fool me. I see the small smile hiding there, in the corner of your lips. You sure have some stinging comments but you bite your tongue.  
“So… I suppose we play for the third place tomorrow,” you state.  
“I suppose,” I reply.

You are standing there, casually leaning on one of the lockers, and make me feel so shy but also giddy by that expression you have. I want to jump you right here.  
“You want a kiss to seal the deal?” you ask, your voice is actually a bit held-back, as if you were being somewhat coy, too.

I dash forward, right into your arms and I can hardly suppress my whimper when our lips and tongues meet.  
Unfortunately Ferru is just coming out of the shower and his tone is clearly horrified. “Quit that right now, bastardos! You agreed to no stuff like that in the lockers! Get a fucking room!”

We do that, just after my press conference. We are leaving the complex hand in hand and outside there are tons of fans waiting for us; your fans carrying red banners with the Swiss cross on, and of course the witty slogans, too, scattered among my fans with the Spanish flag. It’s a heady feeling to see them united and getting along.

We are signing for a good quarter hour, posing for photos with many of them, commenting on things they show us, accepting some nice presents and basically just chatting them, in a familiar and homey manner. They are everywhere we go to, following us across the globe faithfully, so this is the right treatment to give them.

One of my fans from the back shouts a _’Rafa, marry me!’_ and you turn to that direction, not quite seeing who it was, and say, “That’s not gonna happen, I’m sorry!”

I don’t know where to look; I want to disappear because I know my ears are totally red by now and all the people are flashing at me with lightening speed and I’m sure these photos will be spread within the next two hours for all who wasn’t here to see.

There is an elderly woman, I can’t decide if she is in your group or mine, asking for a photo of both of us. Not even with herself in the middle, only you and I. Then I realize she is probably a fan of _us_. That is lovely.  
We stand close, faces almost touching, for her to snap pictures. She is managing some settings on her camera while looking on its screen and says, “Oh guys, you are so beautiful!”

I honestly want to turn my head and hide it in the crook of your neck so I don’t have to face these comments anymore. I can never get used to them, no matter how much time passed.

We go separated again and I’m signing my book for a little girl who probably can’t even read yet. She is so cute I think of wanting to steal her and take her home.

Meanwhile your most animated fans, two ladies in front line, are asking you if you are going to propose to me. This topic seriously has to get banned!  
“You think I should?” you ask back and giggle. I can’t believe you!  
Suddenly the whole bunch is awing and most of them answering yes, yes, absolutely overreacting; the remaining part who don’t join in are still taking pictures rapidly.  
“Rafa, are you going to marry Roger?” asks another girl.  
I give up, I can’t get out of this anymore. “We no marry, no!” I say, trying to sound neutral.  
You are chuckling over there, while still giving out signs. “No?” you ask, head turned to me. I can see the lights dancing in your eyes. Or is that mischief? Here we go with the up-to-no-good attitude again!  
“Roger…” I send a warning toward you.

The crowd is following this as if it was a tennis match and they sat at the sideline; heads snapping right and left, depending on who is talking.   
“You hear him, we are not gonna get married!” you tell them. Now they seem a bit disappointed.  
“Why not, Rafa?” one of them chimes in.  
“I not know! We are happy like this?” I offer.  
And they are all back to awing.

We say bye to them and hoping we will see them again tomorrow.

“What a tough chat,” you are stating, already sitting in the car.  
Your snickering really starts to piss me off. “What was it at all, Rog?”  
“Oh, come on! Isn’t it nice they care? And they accept it. Would be seemingly happy if it happened, isn’t that just beautiful and reassuring?”  
I sigh. “You always put it in a different way and it look nice! You and words, words, words…”  
You pull me in and mute me with a kiss. The fact that we have a driver and he can see everything that is happening on the backseats, doesn’t bother you.

You are fearless.

Like you are fearless in bed, too, when I hardly prepeare you and you are already impatient and want me inside, and I almost rip you apart, and it’s so good and wild and demanding and unleashed.

Before we fall asleep you say you wanted to have it hard and tomorrow while we are playing each other, you will still feel me inside of your body. When you say such a thing I can’t even deal with it. It’s almost enough to make me aroused again and have another go.

This is the part of you only I am allowed to see and I have every intention to keep it that way forever and beyond.

### ABU DHABI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, 31st of DECEMBER, 2011

I’m hitting with Ferru again as a warm-up to our match.

The last match of the calendar year, but the second match of the new tennis year. I feel the need to already wish Happy New Year to everyone I meet. My mood is definitely festive.

I’m here at this wonderful place, I’m doing what I know best and always wanted to do, and as a crown to it all, I’m going to play against you. Or how we say it, simply play you. We left _’against’_ out of talk years ago. Even the journos caught upon that we don’t need the _’versus’_ come between us.

I am wording my happy feelings to my team hanging around, and Benito and Maymó and Carlos Costa, my manager, are loading a laptop to share a picture and my thoughts of the upcoming last/second match with the fans on Facebook.

I know you are warming up at the other smaller court, and also know well that Nole kind of awkwardly asked you to please, hit with him. You actually wanted to do it with Gaël but Novak really looked like a lost dog and like someone who had some thoughts to reveal on his mind. So you said yes, of course, why not? And told me maybe you two could exchange some words meanwhile.

I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to leave you alone with Nole! He can have bad intentions. But your team is there, so I’m not worried that much.

In the locker room you hug me and say you missed me.  
There is a certain kind of mysterious smile playing around your lips.  
I ask what Novak said to you but you just dismiss it with a hand gesture that promises you will tell me later.

Fine with me, we have another kind of battle to fight!  
“You no fake it, Roger, or I no forgive you!” I warn.  
“Yes, yes! Bossy one. Can I still wear my watch though, oh my ruler and commander?”  
I grimace. “I no care of your watch!”

You always wear your Rolex when you play at an exhibition event, as your sponsor expect. It’s not even a conscious act after so many years; it’s only there to be seen so you put it on display on autopilot.

“Play fair game!” I go on. “Bring out the guns!”  
You are laughing loud. “I didn’t plan to strip and show my dick off, Rafa, but if you insist…”  
I groan. You are making me very, very frustrated. I decide I’m done with this. Time to concentrate on tennis.  
“No kiss?” you ask when I turn to leave you. You are actually pouting. That’s quite a sight! Something surprising and so out of place on your face.  
I lean back toward you and our lips meet. Nothing much, just a peck.  
“I give you more if you play nice,” I murmur seductively, and you step back, hissing.  
“Jesus, Rafa, you are purring! Go away right now or I really put out the big guns!” You are shaking your head to clear the haze off.

I realize this process had to be unsuccessful because when we begin to play, you hardly return my balls. First I think it’s okay, you almost always need a bit of time to get into the game properly.

But the first set that I win by 6 games to 1 indicates it otherwise. After I break your second service game, too, I start to get mad. Staring you down from the other side of the court doesn’t help, unfortunately. I want to go jump over the net and smack your head upside-down!

At my set point I let out a desperate whine, not even remotely comparable to my usual grunts, and despite of my win.

I wish I could talk to you! But that is not the way in tennis, may it be an exho or the most valuable of finals.  
I’m still staring at you while we are having our sitting break and I know you can feel my eyes burning a hole into you, but you duck your head and don’t return my gaze.

Still, it might have had some effects on you, for you walk on court with uplifted spirit and begin to play good. I’m so relieved after the first points when I see you are going to fight back.

We produce a nice set, you pull out some of your most remarkable tricks, and I feel featherlight, chasing your balls down right and left and middle. It’s undiscribably beautiful to play you.

I swing a ball up for you to have it in a good position to hit a funny, above-the-head shot and the audience is delighted. Not later than in 10 seconds you are preparing it for me to hit a tweener and I notice I’m laughing on court.

I hardly ever hit between the legs and when I try, I usually fail. This time, I’m sure, if you had let it hit the ground, it would have been out. But you put your racquet in its way and pass it back and I return it and then your answer crashes into the net. I win the point.

The things you do for me.

I still win the second set by 7-5, even though you are not playing careless anymore.  
I know you never had any intentions to even come close to try beating me today.  
I jog to the net that instant when it’s over and stand there, waiting for you to walk lazily to me. We hug and smile. I want to kiss you.

Ferru and Novak are in the locker room, preparing to their match, and they both laughing at this whole thing, mostly at you being all nonchalant about exhos.

Novak is very nice and friendly with you, saying your behaviour on court puts his very easy win from yesterday into perspective. Meaning, you never took him serious in the first place, so thinking that it meant anything is foolish. Maybe he is learning some decency and how to be humble?

Ferru says something like when you began to really take it just half serious, you could have erased me from the court, had you wanted.  
I’m aware of that and it makes me proud and excited for the future and I want to jump.  
Yet, the one thing I most wish to do right now is making you know how grateful I am for that second set fun.

“Look, he’s got the starry eyes!” says Novak and they snicker on while you and I are looking at each other and sharing an inner moment that nobody can decode.

We wish the guys good luck before they go to play their final, then take a shower together in the luxurious bathroom of the Zayed Tennis Center.

We are only the two of us at the moment so nothing can hold you back from pushing your hardening cock to my thigh, and mine to yours with the same move, backing me to the shower stall’s wall.

I moan so loud and the delicate tiles only multiply its volume.

You just stand here like that, bent close but not close enough, except of our midsections, your forearms laid on the hard and cool surface beside my head. You are keeping this distance and I can’t bear it.

“Rafa…” you say in a very low tone and I can’t help it, my hips are jutting out and I rub myself on you.  
“I want to have you on all fours and fuck you hard,” you go on, looking me in the eyes all along, never even blinking.  
My whimper says it all. I’m aching for you.  
“I was thinking on the court, how gorgeous you were, and I thought, when had playing you become so difficult? Could barely shake myself out of it! I’m so sorry for that first set, Rafael… I couldn’t try. It is the only time I can watch you play me. Other times, I can’t watch, I have to follow, stick with you, I have to want to win. No time to see the beauty of you… Not this level of it… When it’s serious, you know…”

You are also rubbing on me hard now and I’m losing my mind over it, over your words you are saying to me, blurry but so clear at the same time, and that voice… I can’t cope with that voice seducing me, taking me, claiming me…  
“Roger…” I moan.  
I’m unfocused. Or focused on only our shafts touching and I’m getting so close.  
“Kiss me! ¡Por favor!” I beg.  
You lean in and I close my eyes immediately but the kiss never comes. I look at you again and you are smirking. Not in the annoying but the winning way.  
This clash, this is won by you again. I can’t even keep count of how many times it happened. You would have the best head-to-head record against me if I could! You break all the records when it comes to my heart and soul and body.  
You are the fucking GOAT in that, too!

I’m in pain, really, and constantly whimpering and moaning now.  
I don’t try to kiss you. I want you to have it your way.  
“That’s it, Rafa…” you whisper and increase the pace.  
Not even for a second you are taking your eyes off of mine.  
“I’m gonna kiss you,” comes the statement, and I grunt. “And when I kiss you, I hope you come for me, Rafael…”

My brain, as it’s not working anymore, doesn’t even register it fully, when you crash your mouth on mine, thrust your tongue inside and kiss me with such force we both stop moving our hips and go on only in the smallest circles.  
“I was still feeling you inside of me on court… Told you I would…” you murmur when you tear your lips away for a bit. The shock sent to my body is immense.

I’m done. Broken. Owned.

Dominated.

You suck my tongue back into your mouth and I’m shuddering, and we are both coming, giving the other all we have, splashed between our bellies.

You are slumped against my full lenght now and I’m grateful for that. My knees are about to give up support but you are holding me up.

I’m breathing hard, too hard, too ragged, I think I’m going to hyperventilate and you feel it.  
“Shhh…” you whisper in my ear. “It’s okay, just come back to me slowly, Rafael!”  
That kind of does it for me. I push you a bit off and open my eyes, dilated. “No say Rafael, por favor! Is too much…” I can look at you finally.  
Your smile is responding my satisfied one. Your voice is silk. “Hey. Welcome!” and you are off to giggle.

Some things never change…

The night finds us at the local _Coldplay_ concert and the following street party; we are having so much fun, drinking and dancing, savouring the last hours of the year we called 2011 for 365 days.

Jo-Wilfried and Gaël are here, too, as well as our teams. I love to party with our tennis fellows much, it’s different from clubbing with friends from home.

You refuse to dance again, but that is nothing new. You are royally drunk, though, and when Titín wants to film us together, I’m jumping only with Jo and Gaël because you are just not able to, unless you are willing to puke.

Soon you start to drink only your precious bubble water, chasing away the worst effects of drunkenness. It works for you, so you won’t be hungover. I should follow your lead in this but I keep having champagne.

There is half an hour left until midnight when I grab your hand and pull you a bit farther from the masses to have a more silent corner for ourselves before the year rolls into the next.

You don’t seem wasted anymore, only tipsy. You are hugging me close, hands on my ass and we kiss hungrily. You still taste like champagne.

We part and you look curiously at me. “Did you wanna say something?”  
“Sí! Thank you for this year, Rogi, no?” I smile shyly.  
You grin. “Don’t be silly! We made it great together!”  
I nod. “Sí. I… err…” I have no idea what more I wanted to say and your mind also wanders off to a different direction.  
“Are you wearing red underwear as tradition says?” you interrupt me and you are already laughing because my blush says it all.  
“Lemme see!”  
“What? Here? Roger…”  
But you are pulling up my shirt and lower my jeans and there it is, my deep red boxers that I’m supposed to wear to bring good luck on the last day of the year, based on Spanish beliefs.  
You are smoothing its fabric with your thumb and it constantly slips on to my skin, then back to the boxers.  
“Oh God, just… can we skip this and go home? Fuck New Years Eve, I want to rip this piece off of you!”  
I must look at you in fear because you snicker and say we of course won’t leave the party so soon, you just need to recover from the sight.  
You make me giggle with that.

“Now, let’s go, you need your grapes, it’s 5 minutes left!” you say, and indeed, it’s almost midnight.

The Spanish team are ready when the clock hits 12 and you are counting loud while I am eating one grape for each one of the 12 ticks. You never take your eyes off me and the half-chewed, unswallowed grapes are still in my mouth when you slam yours to my lips and literally steal some of it for yourself.

You swallow and say, “Frohes Neues Jahr, Rafael!”  
“¡Feliz año nuevo, Roger!” I return it in Spanish.  
We get champagne tossed into our hands, I don’t even know by who, and clink glasses, drink and kiss again.  
“I hope I didn’t eat your luck,” you say.  
“No, we share it, no?”  
Your eyes and smile are sparkling just like the liquid in our glasses.

With the fireworks lighting and colouring the sky above us, we make the rounds, wishing happy new year to everybody and party on, now officially on the first day of 2012.

Three hours later we celebrate the New Year on Europe’s behalf, too, for Switzerland and Spain. It’s emotional to think of home and the people we left behind but we blame it on the alcohol. You say we will see them soon enough, and I say I could be anywhere in the world and feel at home while you are by my side.

Home is your forehead touching mine and your fingers curling into mine and your words making me come and your eyes telling me you love me.

Home is where you are.


	14. Part 14

### DOHA, QATAR, 1st of JANUARY, 2012

It’s only a mere half an hour flight to get to Doha and we are sleepless and I’m hungover, yet you manage to turn me on by doing nothing in the plane.

Nothing, except wearing a polo-shirt with two neat buttons at the neck, undone.

I spend the half an hour with staring at the few hairs curling there, at the small gap, right where there is that little dip in one’s neck.

I’m so worked up I ignore everything and everybody around me and turn inside, staying alone with my thoughts. Or say, fantasies.

I know you see it. You glance at me many times, but don’t say a word.  
I only keep looking, not bothered by your gaze.

Fortunately my body is so exhausted that getting hard is not really a possibility so it remains only in my mind.

It’s useful because we arrive so soon and we have to go through the traditional welcome, when our hosts walk us through the airport and little kids dressed in local wear present flowers to us. I get some nice ones, lilac and white in a nice tie. You get red roses. They adore you everywhere and you are the defending champion here.

And you are Roger Federer. That sums it up.

“What?” you ask, whispering, when you notice I’m giggling softly on our way to the cars.  
“¡Nada!” I say. “Nice being here, no?”  
“Where it all starts over again, you mean?” you join in giggling. “I wonder what they planned for us this year!”

Here in Doha we usually launch the new tennis year, as it’s a first tournament in the ATP Tour calendar. The organizers set up some very clever and spectacular idea everytime. We played on a boat here, on a flying magic carpet, and on water! The carpet hung on a massive crane and lifted above the ground creeped me out, even though we had security ropes adjusted to our waists. I recall you smiling reassuringly at me from the other side of the net up there, on the slightly swaying carpeted court, and talking to me softly, telling me it’s okay and we won’t fall. I wouldn’t have ever even climbed up on it if it hadn’t been for you encouraging me! But of the water court I carry particularly beautiful memories.

We are driven to some place, looking like an ancient theatre venue. An amphitheatre, you say. Trust you to know such difficult words, and me not!

None of the organizers say anything about where we are excatly, or what we are going to do, other than it’s obvious we will play tennis because they lead us into a room where they politely ask us to please change into sports gear and bring our racquets when we are ready.

We are left alone and for a moment and we just stand here, staring stupidly at one another. Then instincts kick in and we change.  
“It’s interesting,” you say. “Didn’t they always tell us what was going on beforehand?”  
I nod. “Benito or Carlos no say a word.”  
“Nor Mirka! It’s highly suspicious!” you grin and I return it.

You are leading the way out of the room, following the guys directing us, probably outside, to the inner space of this theatre.  
You come to a sudden halt when you reach the gate and I walk right into your back with an oof sound uttered.  
“Oh God, look at that!” you exclaim and I glance over your shoulder.

My first thought is about the word _’dumbfucked’_ you taught me once, when I see the scene set up for us.

It’s an open air venue, candles lit all over its stands, and in the centre of it, in the arena itself there is a tennis court, lines all made out of the same Roman candles. Even on the top of the ’net’ there are candles, burning.

I’m speechless. Dumbfucked, sí!

The people rush forward and make themselves busy.

“Do you think they find this funny, setting up a candlelit date for us, or what?” you ask, whispering.  
I have to giggle. “How we play here? It burn arm and leg hair if we go close!”  
We burst out of laughing.  
“Maybe they just decided to film that porn tape of us finally!” you joke. “Though why are we in tennis gear then? I would expect you wearing some silk pants.”  
“¿Qué? Why me? Why no you?”  
“Rafa, my package would look scary in silk!” you go on.  
“Good for porn, no?” I retort and we giggle.  
“Well, let’s see!” you say.

And you take my hand and walk us to the courtside where Karim, the main organizer of the tournament is literally rubbing his palms together, he is so excited and pleased with the idea. It was likely his!  
“How do you like the court, gentlemen?” he asks.  
“It’s wonderful,” you reply as smoothly as ever. “Really romantic, like in One Thousend And One Nights. Isn’t it a bit dangerous though?”  
Karim looks slightly disturbed. “You don’t like it?”  
You are shaking your head. “No, no, I do, I do! I really do! We do, yes, Rafa?”  
I can only nod enthusiastically. Maybe I like it more than you even. I’m sure I look like a puppy who is ready to play, his master throwing the ball.  
“Excellent!” says Karim. “To tell the truth, when I came up with the idea I thought it was brilliant but then some of my partners had doubts as it might… probably… indicate your off court relationship a bit too much.”  
You nod. “Well, yes, but that wouldn’t bother us the slightest, Karim! I think we are more concerned about the burnt injuries with all those flaming high! This one here…” and you pull me closer, somewhat presenting me to Karim’s eyes better, “… can lose his fingerprints by eating hot food with hands! He’s not trustable near any fire or hotness!” And you are chuckling softly.  
I groan out a pained ’Roger’, but there is not much to do when you get like this.

Karim smiles and ushers us forward, to introduce the camera crew to us.  
“You enough hotness and I am near you, no?” I murmur to you on our way.  
Your eyes flicker at me and you grin. “What a compliment!” And a hardly present blush appears on your cheeks, creeping down to your neck and up to your ears.

The last rays of sun are disappearing on the horizon when we are entering the court, stepping carefully over the candles.

The official tour photographer, Paul, is asking us to just mimic some rallies between us first, so they can take still photos of our moves.

It’s really fun to hit without a ball and we constantly have to stop because we keep cracking up. You can’t shut up and make remarks on my hitting technique and constantly calling my non-existent balls out. I tell you you will have a nice future as a tennis commentator one day.

The crew is working with more cameras and a 3D one, plus there is the making of crew filming.

During the job being done, we can’t enjoy the sight of the scene. We have to also hit with balls soon, and then at the net wish Happy New Year to all the fans, I in Spanish and you in English. This gets wrapped up really fast; you interrupt it only twice with giggles.

I would kick your shin through the net separating us, if it wasn’t solid, instead of the proper kind.

When it’s done and the staff is packing up their equipment, you are asking tons of questions of them, how this and that works, how it will look like when it’s finished after post-production.

I’m leaving you there, and walking up to the highest stand and take a seat between two candles far enough from me to feel their heat. I look over the whole amphitheatre now. It’s a breathtaking sight. I sigh contentedly. It’s really so good to be me in a moment of peace like this. I wouldn’t have it, was I not a tennis player, was I not good enough to have high rankings, and was I not so lucky to have _you_ as my rival. And lover. I guess, without this last detail, they would never have come up with this setting!

I’m giggling at this in myself when you are jogging up to me and sit close. You throw your arm around my shoulder and our legs and sides are touching.  
“Relaxing, ja?” you say. “They used about 4000 candles, I just asked!”  
“Is beautiful,” I add.

You thighten your grip on my shoulder and pull me even closer if that is possible.  
“ _You_ are beautiful in their lights!” you whisper, so close to my ear that your breath hits it, and soon you catch my earlobe between your teeth.  
“No start that, Rog! Still people around!” I say but you pretend to be deaf again and cup my chin in your free hand, turn my head to you and capture my lips with yours, forcing me open up to you even before I know what’s happening. I shudder when your tongue is pushed in and touching mine, and my cock jumps in interest.

You trail down to my neck next, while murmuring between kisses and bites that nobody is seeing us up here, and you can’t wait to get to the hotel, and take me, and that you still want to have me on all fours, and I mumble I have been thinking of that too, since you have uttered those words.

You lay your palm flat on my groin. I’m hard.

“It’s so hard just to exist beside you, Rafa!” you mutter, lips brushing mine. “I want you every moment, I always have some fantasies, some memories. Once I thought it would lessen if I really had you for myself. But it never. It increased since I’d got to know what you can give, or more what I can give and watch you take it!”  
“You have worst timing, Roger,” I say, breathing ragged, moaning the words.  
You giggle. “Didn’t I just tell you I can’t time this? It’s all the time, no exception!”  
“Now you tell something ugly to make it go!” I demand and point at my hard-on.  
“Hm, Benito in a corset?” you offer.  
I start to laugh and it sort of works, just a bit.  
“Wait, wait, I know!” you almost shout. “You playing football for Barcelona, having to score against Real!”  
I must have the most horroristic face put on, and I smack you hard on your thigh.  
You snicker. “It’s working!”  
“Too well!” I admit. All the thoughts of how badly I wanted you just a minute ago are gone from my mind. “Can we sit here a bit more, Rogi? I want remember it forever.”

You only nod and hug me to your body again, and we are looking over this amazing picture, the contrast that the Arabian night and the candle lit venue are showing together.  
I don’t know how long we sit here but you start to fidget after a while.  
“Say it!” I request. I know there is something on your mind.  
You sigh. “You know, it’s a bit like us. The light showing the way in the pitch black, right? Like when I think of you being the dot on my ’i’.”  
“You think I am the dot to your ’i’?” I ask, quite surprised.  
“Yeah. I started to realize it when I saw you put that last little dot to your signature on the cam after a win. It just means you are the contrast of me but also complementing me. I am not whole without you. Not on court and not in my private life.”

I nod in agreement. There is no need for words and I’m not even good with words to match yours. So I kiss you instead and we stay here, sitting and kissing in silence until Mirka comes to fetch us to take us to the hotel.  
We are already inside our suite when she is still standing in the door and cussing us out because we were foolish enough to sit up there in the windy and cooling night, wearing only shirts and shorts.  
“Yes, yes, mother!” you joke with her. “Please, give my hello to your husband and thank him for saving me from you, all right?” And you are shutting the door after her.  
She shouts back that you should thank _me_ for that, through the closed door, and she leaves.

The sleeplessness, the travel, the nice little work-out in the open air and all the excitement of the day take on both of us and after unpacking some most handy stuff, and taking showers, we call room service and eat dinner in bed, watching TV and being fascinated by the running Arabian texts at the bottom of the screen.

The strong need to make love is gone for now, no matter how screaming our desire was just a couple of hours ago.

I fall asleep curled into you, resting my head in the crook of your neck, and scraping your chest lightly with my fingers, while you are lazily smoothing your knuckles up and down on my back.

Today was pretty nice for the first of a year.

### DOHA, QATAR, 2nd of JANUARY, 2012

I’m waking up to your loud and even breathing in my ear. You are completely draped all over my back and your head is resting on the back of my neck. You are fast asleep. And heavy. I try to move, to slide away a bit, but I fail.  
It makes me giggle and you stir on top of me, mumbling, “What?”  
“I have to piss, Rog.”  
“So go!” you say. Your low murmur is vibrating in my chest.  
“I can no move,” I chuckle.  
You sigh and then reluctantly roll off of me to let me leave for the bathroom.

When I’m back in bed, you are again lying on your belly, your head turned toward me on a pillow. I settle down close and reach for a curly lock of your hair. I straighten it with my fingers, then release it, and it springs back into the same perfect curl how it was before.

You are smiling, eyes shut. I know you are neither sleeping anymore, nor being fully awake yet. It’s a very intimate state, I’m always grateful to witness such calm and vulnerability.

I keep playing with your hair and my mind wanders. “You still no tell me what Novak said to you.”  
“Who?” you mutter, the pillow damping your voice.  
“Novak!” I repeat.  
You groan. “Couldn’t you find any worse way to wake me than mentioning him?”  
I giggle. “I curious.”

You open your eyes and slowly blink at me. “Nothing much, actually. He began to babble about how he respects us and our relationship, it was pretty messy, so I asked him to cut the shit and say what his point was. Then he said he hoped I didn’t mind him wanting to be your friend, and that he was not trying anything else with you. Which is never true, we know, right? I told him I didn’t see any reason to mind it but it requires two to form a friendship. And anyway, it’s not worth it to try anything else because you chose who you love, and you chose me. It’s that simple. That made him dumb.”  
This makes me snicker.  
“You so evil, Rogi,” I say.  
“No, I was very polite, I swear!” you wink at me. “You know it’s not the first time I think that he was training his ass off out of his anger over you being mine! And look where that brought him! He beats us, he is #1, he won three Slams last year. Sexual tension and unrequited love make us frustrated enough to pour it into some serious achievement! It happened to me, so I know.”  
“Your love was no unrequited,” I remind you.  
“Little did I know…” you smile.  
“Sí, you so blind!”  
“Yeah. Since Wimbledon, where I knew you knew, and you returned my feelings, I never really beat you, like I did before. But I won you over, so titles became second best to me because I have the most important thing in my life and that is your love. If I never win any big thing anymore, I’m still happy with having you.”  
I burst out of laughing. I didn’t want to because what you said was really romantic and cute, but while you are saying words like these, I’m sure you don’t know how absent your face gets, or how your eyes unfocus and stare to nowhere.  
“I am bigger than 16 Grand Slam!” I woot and throw myself back on the bed and punch the air with my fist.  
“You brat!” you say, but begin to laugh with me.

The day is busy and goes fast. You host Kids Clinics, and we both have press duties and training later.

Yours is so late that you arrive at the Players’ Party just on time, but wearing your practice gear. This is the very first time I have ever managed to outdress you, with my dark jeans and button-up shirt. Nothing fancy, except of the brownish belt I got from you. I notice your fond smile when you spot it.

Tomorrow we are going to have our first matches, mine as the second of the schedule and yours following, so after the dinner and talking some to our mates and press members and organizers, we excuse ourselves and escape to our hotel suite to call it an early, cuddly night.

### DOHA, QATAR, 3rd of JANUARY, 2012

During breakfast at our dining table we are reading newspapers; you in Spanish, I in German. Silly little thing – mixing our papers – that we just do sometimes when up to it.

“Look, your athlete mates chose you the Best Spanish Sportsman of 2011!” you say, grinning, and tossing the paper toward me.

I take a look and give a sheepish smile. Everybody would sacrifice a limb for the success I had in 2011, but compared to my own former achievements it was actually not a good year. I’m still the chosen one because they love me. That gives me enermous amount of strength and faith to go on.

“Why do you call Rafa Maymó Titín?” you ask, munching on a chocolate filled croissant you stole from my plate. You always order a Continental breakfast but still end up eating my sweet bakery products.  
I shrug. “Dunno. Just came. He look like a Titín to me.”  
“It doesn’t mean anything, ja? You said so in your book.”  
“Sí,” I nod.  
“You are a weird guy, Raf,” you state, that secret little smile dancing around your lips.  
“¡Gracias!” I grin back.

Sometimes we have the most random conversations about nothing.

“Why you ask about Titín?” My interest is perked now.  
You turn the pages in El País, the Spanish newspaper, and point out an article to me. “Here, they are talking about his role in your career. If I bear Spanish good enough and understood right!”  
“Hmm, sí! You do!” I reassure you, and go on scanning the writing. I startle you with a snorting laugh out of the blue.  
“What?” you ask.  
“Look! Here they wonder if Titín have deeper impact than you have!” I laugh fully now. “I can tell them about deeper impact, no?” I murmur and you choke on your food.

Quite an ordinary morning in the household.

Tennis goes just how it’s supposed to.

I beat Philip Kohlschreiber, even though I struggle a bit in the second set, and I lose it.

When it’s over, I rush back to the locker room to recieve a cold scolding look from you, standing there, bags at hand, ready to leave for your match.  
“How many times I told you I’m too old for that kind of excitement?” you say but then your cool manner cracks and your lips pull into a wide smile.  
We hug and I get my sweat from my forehead on yours. Then a quick kiss on lips and you are gone.

I’m taking my shower in a hurry and giving short answers to the questions of the press conference, then run back to the court to barely see anything of your match.  
You are done with it, despite of all the great expectations from Davydenko who played the final here last year against you. You won that of course, just how you won this first round battle, too. 6-2, 6-2.

This is not exho level anymore.

Sí, the year indeed began and I can’t wipe the grin off of my face while I’m watching you give your first winner’s on court interview and sign the camera on your way off.

You are giving autographs beside the gate and cast a winky look at me, toward the box. I give you a thumb-up and go back to the lockers, where we meet in minutes.

I take your bags at the door and carry it to your locker. “I no see shit of it, Rogi,” I state, and you smile smugly.  
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t stretch it long enough and wait until you show up! You need to learn faster English, Rafa! Those pressers take too much time.”  
I huff but still can’t stop laughing. “Good match, no?”  
You nod.

I linger around and pack all your stuff while you are showering and having your interviews, then we walk through the tennis center and leave at the least crowded backdoor.

It’s still messy enough and we meet quite a few of fans and sign for every one of them.

We both getting the post-match massage back in the hotel rooms and when everybody else leaves, we stay in and eat in bed again.

I just watch you later, when we are settled for sleep. You look pliant and drowsy and so sexy I want to do wild things to you. Instead of that I only scoot closer and press my nose to your chest.  
“You always do that, you know?” you murmur. “Rubbing your nose tip on me like that. Must be some mating ritual. I will ask your Dad if it’s in your Nadal blood!”  
That thought is horroristic. “You no ask Papá that thing! Or I kick your ass!”  
You laugh. “You wouldn’t! You want to do other things to my ass, let’s face it!”

This goes straight to my cock and I throw myself on you and we kiss hungrily for a while. Then it’s slowing down and becoming gentle and though you are touching my ass and I’m rubbing myself on your thigh, nothing is so urgent any longer.

We hold each other, stroking slowly and the content sighs are all that is to be heard, except of that deep groan of yours when you come in my hand, and my muffled cry when I come in yours.

We clean up, and share a last kiss, and smile a last one, and you fall asleep, hugging me to your warm body, and I slide my fingers into your hair, push my nose back to your skin, and happily follow you to Dreamworld.


	15. Part 15

### DOHA, QATAR, 4th of JANUARY, 2012

I win my match against Denis Gremelmayr 6-2, 6-2.

I’m thinking it has been going quite easy so far, despite of the lack of preparation on my part. I’m pleased; I got some better topspin performed and I’m getting more used to the new weight of my racquets. It’s still nowhere near my real potential but I’m closing the gap with more matches being played.

I’m watching you play and easily defeat Grega Zemlja later.

It would remain just another simple match in history, just another step to reach another final at another tournament again. Unless it’s not because in the second set I notice you stretching your shoulder and back too many times for my likings.

It’s never a good sign knowing the history you have with your sensitive back. And indeed, when you are done and back at the lockers, you can barely sit down in a position that wouldn’t hurt you.

The massage with Stéphane, your physio, helps a bit, so you can walk around more freely, but he strictly forbids you to lift or carry anything.  
Your Dad is there to take your bags but I want to do it for you and we end up staring each other down for a while, and in the end Robert gives up and hands the equipment over to me.  
I have to hide a triumphant smile and you say the smallest wins in life are always the sweetest.

I’m happy to see your sense of humour didn’t leave you even though you look slightly lost later in our bathroom, not knowing how to bend enough to rinse your mouth after brushing teeth, not wanting to spit from a 185 centimeters height. Finally you manage it somehow and lying in bed we are giggling at the pissed off images of Mirka, who stood in the lounge after your match, with her hands popped on her waist, and lectured you about sitting in the cool night air and wind in the highest row of the amphitheatre the other day. Because she of course told you it couldn’t be good for your health and she was right.

“You think you play tomorrow, Rogi?” I ask, hopeful but not too much.  
“I have no idea, Raf. We will see.”  
You are lying flat on the mattress, without any pillows – it’s more comfortable for your back that way. I scoot closer and pop myself up on my pillows, looking down at your relaxed face. I can see you are not in pain right at the moment.

I’m thinking hard if I should go for a kiss or just leave you completely alone.

You take a squinting look at me. “I won’t break, Rafa!” you say, amused, and pull my head down to give me a deep kiss. “Now go to your half of the bed and stay there! No climbing on me tonight!”

I feel your kiss linger on my lips and I wonder if it would still be there when I wake up next morning.

### DOHA, QATAR, 5th of JANUARY, 2012

I apparently can’t help not to spoon up to you in my unconscious sleeping state. It’s proven when I wake up with my nose pushed into your side, even though my body isn’t so close and doesn’t crowd you.

I carefully carry myself away but stay sitting at the foot of the bed, watching you sleeping sprawled all over your side of it.

You seem peaceful even when you make some tiny movements. It’s mouthwatering when the thin blanket wrinkles around your crotch and offers me a good sight of your half hard cock.

I look at your face. You are smiling.  
Must be a nice dream.

I want to bend over you and attach my lips to your balls and suck. I want it so bad! But I’m afraid it would startle you out of your slumber and you might make a sudden stir that would hurt your back.

While I’m thinking through this, you wake up by yourself and the next time I glance at your face, your eyes are open, though hooded, and you are watching me.

“How is the back?” I ask and from your surprised reaction I realize you had forgotten you had it injured last night.  
You try to lift your hips carefully and it works, so you get braver and pop your upper body up on your elbows.  
“Feels better,” you say, smiling. “You can do what you wanted!”  
I’m not surprised you can read my face so easily. Of course you know what I was planning.  
“Are you…”  
“Sure!” you interrupt me and that is all it takes, I come closer, tenderly pull your legs open wider and settle down between them. I smooth up your thighs and you utter so pretty wanton noises that my cock is swelling in my boxer shorts.  
“Rafa…” you moan, and it sounds very much like _’Suck my cock, please!’_

When I pin your hips to the bed and take you in my mouth, you are fully erect, made only by anticipation.  
Still leaned on your elbows you are watching me swirl my tongue around the head and slurp the precome gathered. Then I stick the tip of my tongue into your slit and you can’t keep your head up anymore so let it hang back.

I release you and ask if it isn’t uncomfortable but you give me only a guttural moan and some muttered words that resemble of _’Go on!’_

I obey and take your cock fully in my mouth. It hits the back of my throat and I let it go deep inside and swallow around it.  
You choke on your breath and want to thrust but you can’t because I hold you down, and your cock is trapped as well. It makes me insanely aroused and my head to spin.

I pull my mouth off, my tongue pushed strongly to the thick vein in the underside of your cock. Then I slip it back inside again and swallow, and I repeat this until your body stiffens and accompanied by some keening sounds, you come deep down in my throat.

My jaw is aching badly and I really can’t swallow anymore but with the last effort I still do somehow and every drop goes down.

For a second I’m in sheer panic because I feel your cock stuck in my throat and I think it would never get free again. But then you soften and slip out easily and finally I can go back to normal breathing and lie on your thigh exhaustedly.

Somewhere in between two sucks your arms gave up and you slid lying flat on the mattress. Now one of your hands flies to my head and fingers dig deep in my hair, massaging my scalp, as if thanking me.  
You murmur _’Rafa’_ again and this time it means _‘I love you’_.

I grin and could go back to sleep just like this, but we have places to be at and jobs to do. So I reluctantly get up and help you sit and watch your every move as a hawk.  
“Must be very hard to ignore that!” you say, pointing at my tented shorts.  
I shrug. “Very hard!” I wink and would continue with something equally cheeky but in that moment you stand and your back cracks loud.  
“Can you walk, Rog?” I ask, concerned, but you shush me and to prove your point you walk to the bathroom and start the shower.  
“You coming anytime soon?” And there is the playful hint in your voice, emphasising the double meaning.

You turn me around when I’m in the shower with you and leaning your back to the glass wall, you pull me tight to your chest and your soaped hands are cupping my balls and cock and you are doing that awesome thing you do to yourself and I’m too hazed to protest.

I hear you hissing and I know it’s because of your back, at an uncomfortable movement, but you tell me to hush and come for you and I do just that and the water is washing away my hot pearls dropped on your hands.

I turn and lean into you and say, “You should not…” but you yank my head toward you and your kiss kills my sentence.

I’m feeling guilty later when you are suffering under Stéphane’s hands on the massage table. He is trying to bring you in a state to be able to play.

You say I should care about my own preparation but I want to come hit with you, so I do. In the end of your warming-up you announce that you can play and you will.

I’m not so convinced but there is no way to hold an argument with you in such matters. I let you do whatever you feel like doing, keeping my worry grounded.

When you finally decide to play, you get quite cheerful, like this had been the hardest task to manage today and the burden had rolled off your chest. So you are giggling at some websites in the locker room, reading out loud to me that my silly rolling suitcase got so famous in two days, it has its own Twitter account now.

It’s a stupid story. I go on court with my little suitcase I store my PlayStation, other electronic stuff and wires for them in, because in some mysterious ways I forgot to bring my sports bag for the spare shirts, shoes and whatnot I have to take to the court when I play. You can’t stop laughing at me.

When it’s time for you to start I make a clumsy attempt to warn you to stop playing and leave the court if you feel you can’t keep going anymore. You shrug and smile it off and use a dumbing kiss as the period to the argument dismissed. And you are off.

No problems occur in the first set and when I’m back from my warm-up, I see you claiming it by 6-3 easily. But the temperature is still cold compared to what we are used to here in Doha, and there is also a rise in the wind. It can’t possibly help you copy with the already existing back strain and Seppi takes the second set, tight though.

I’m here, watching you with worried eyes and hiss silently at every unusual move you make. I know you are hurting. I also know there is no chance to admit it and give up. You never do, when you start a match. Be it the worst pain, you finish it on court.

You jump and do warming-up exercises before the third and deciding set begins. It could be a positive sign, showing that you are determined and ready to take your opponent into pieces. But I know this time it means soreness.

You still win the third set and the match with that. And though you know it might cost your health and going deeper into the tournament, you are leaving the court happily with another win in the bag.

No matter how much fight Misha Youzhny puts up, I sweep him from the court in straight sets later. 6-4, 6-4. And I rush back to you as soon as possible, after my press duties are done.

I even call my previously settled dinner appointment with the football team _Shalke 04_ off when they come in the locker room to see me. You are pissed off at me for that and say it’s very impolite to send a whole team off like that when they made the effort to show up at my tennis match and rooted for me.

So you jump into action and want to make it back, but the team members are already occupied otherwise, most of them even went back to their training camp nearby the city.

Only Raúl is available and you invite him for a dinner at our hotel room, getting room service. You explain him everything about your injury and that it’s more comfortable to you to stay in the room than go to a restaurant and sit in a less pleasing chair.

The dinner is delicious and we are telling you old Real Madrid stories and Raúl throws in some tales of disastrous pranks they used to do to each other when he was still at home in Spain. We laugh so much I have to wipe tears from my eyes constantly.

“This was fun,” I tell you in bed, lying on my front and playing with your hair.  
“Hmm,” you nod. “You don’t have to miss anything just because my back is soar, Raf!”  
“I want to take care of you,” I reply.  
“Yes, yes! So much you forget about your own injuries and your own tournament! I have a whole team to take care of me, Rafa.”  
“Some things they can no take care of!” I say and you know what I mean by it because the glint is there in your eyes.  
“Uhum, that won’t happen for a while,” you giggle and I grunt desperately.  
“Though my whole midsection is numb from the shots, you know we can’t risk it!” you add. “Anyway, we have semi-finals to play tomorrow, Señor Horny, so better be asleep and healing!”  
I lay my head on your chest and breathe you in. “You should no play. You can heal sooner then!”  
“So you could have a hole to stick your dick in sooner?” you ask, laughing and shaking my head laid on you, and I feel your heart beating just a bit faster.

Its rhythm is luring me into sleep slowly and I try to leave your warm body and go back to my side of the bed but you hold me close and say no.

I stay.

### DOHA, QATAR, 6th of JANUARY, 2012

The day starts out in the worst way possible – you first can’t sit up in bed, then when you manage very slowly and with difficulties, you can’t stand up from that position.

I need to call Stéphane to put the pieces together and just after that you are able to get properly up, do morning routine and dress.

You are royally pissed off and grumpy. “I’m like some grandpa,” you mutter when I’m helping you to put on your socks and shoes.  
“Handsome one,” I say smiling, but you only faintly return it.

Mirka is standing at the sofa, arms folded at her chest. “You are 30 years old, Roger, you should have known better than sit in the wind sweaty at…”  
“I know!” you shout back at her, loosing your patience. “I know, okay, I fucking know!”  
She hardly lifts an eyebrow and goes on. “And a professional athlete, that is…”  
“Must you be that bitchy all the fucking time?” you spit at her and I can’t stand you two bickering like this. I feel the urge to stand between you and Mirka just this once.  
“Can you please leave now, Mirka?” I ask softly but directing my eyes right at her.  
She holds my look long and probably understands me because she nods and walks out of the room.  
“See you at the lockers!” I shout after her. “Thank you!”  
“Finally!” you sigh and wince with every step you try to take. “I have no idea if I can make it to the club today, Raf! How do I sit in the car?” Your voice is dripping with disappointment and latent anger.  
“We manage, just no worry!” I reassure you and indeed, somehow we get to the locker room and out to one of the practice courts.

You warm up much longer than you would at any other times and I join you on court to do some careful hitting to see how your back is acting.

Soon you say it won’t work, you can’t serve at all, either run after balls.  
“I’m destined to lose today,” you sigh, already defeated before the match has started.  
“You can no play, no? Or you want to lose the winning streak?”  
You look at me horrified. “I never withdraw.”  
“Roger, just this time do not be difficult, por favor! Or I have to tie you to the bench in the lockers.”  
You snicker. “That would be very bad for my back.”  
“Sí. Be good and tell them you not play, Rogi!”

You stop being stubborn and do what’s best for your health at last.

The tournament director is devastated but very understanding and he also cares more for your health than his income, which is nice to see. They gather the journalists to the press room and you give them a short conference to explain the problem and that you have no other choice than withdraw from the competition. You tell them you would have liked to play against Jo-Wilfried very much but it couldn’t be, and you wish him the best of luck for the final where he gets to by walkover now that you are out.

“I feel like it’s not enough,” you complain with a distant look on your face, back at the lockers.  
“What you mean?” I ask.  
“The people. They came to see me.”  
I smirk at you. “Sí. Only you, Rog!”  
You are not impressed by my joke. “I go on court and talk to them,” you decide and I know it’s totally in vain to warn you that you can hardly walk and will hurt yourself more.

Mirka and your father are coming and telling us the organizers asked Stefan Edberg, who is present here, and a former player, star, champion, legend, whatever you want, to play a one-set exhibition match against Tsonga. So the spectators won’t stay without entertainment in the spare hour and I also don’t have to hurry to begin my own semi-final earlier.

This makes you very pleased but still feel obliged to appear in front of the crowd and announce your withdrawal to them in person at center court.

You earn some surprised awing and then a sort of standing ovation when you say goodbye to them and express your hope for coming back next year.

I watch you on a monitor from courtside and I feel so very sorry for you. It costs you much pain to walk straight and try not to show you are actually limping. And the bigger upset is not even that for you, but leaving a tournament you began unfinished.

I also lose a bit of my temper listening to you apologizing for being injured, like that was your fault. But it’s over fast and when you return to me and calm me down, you ask me to erase everything from my mind and concentrate on my match.

We enjoy watching the little exho between Edberg and Jo-Wilfried; they put up a nice show. At the half of it I leave for warm-up and everything is a blur from then on and too soon I find myself at one side of the center court, ready to play, Gaël Monfils looking back at me across the net.

I know you are inside somewhere, you said you would find a comfy chair to sit in and watch me on television. I know you are with your team and your Dad, and the organizers sure ready to jump and please and service you at every word you utter, but I’m still not calm.

I can’t leave it out of court and I can’t get you out of my mind. Thoughts of the upcoming Australian Open enter my brain and imagined dark outcomes keep me bothered. What if you didn’t heal until then? It would kill you not to be able to compete, and that would kill me! 

When I wake up from my misery, I’m beaten by Gaël 6-3, 6-4. I hardly notice it’s over, I tumble through the net-hug and leaving the court, even giving some autographs on my way, in delirious state.

You stand, waiting for me, hands on waist, wearing your what-the-fucking-fuck face, and then I snap out of it.  
“Sorry,” I mutter.  
“I’m sorry, Rafa! I hoped at least you will be there in the final but now I see I fucked it up for you, too.”  
I didn’t expect such a statement. I undrestand now that the disappointment on your face was not toward me but yourself.  
“Bullshit!” I say. “You think you can handle a hug?”  
A small grin sits at your lips. “You only wanna get your sweat all over me again.”  
“At least there is no clay on me!” I answer and take you in my arms. “Lo siento, Roger! I just worry, no? I can no help it.”  
You are kissing my damp hair and tightening the hold. “Doesn’t matter. We have a whole day off tomorrow before we fly out to Melbourne! That’s good.”

We are having a silent, private night together, only the spaghetti is witnessing our soft talking and when I try to read some book to you I have to quit because you get the laughs at my accent again and the shaking moves cause your back pain.

Soon you look high though and I’m worried. I told you not to drink wine to the medication you take but you never listen. Still in giggles when I wash you clean under the shower, you announce that you want me to fuck you. Just like that.

I shrug it off and say it’s the alcohol and medicines talking, but you grind on my thigh like you were healthy and it’s so hard to resist you at that moment.  
I stand strong contra every reasoning of yours and I manage to put you in bed without you jumping on me and impaling yourself on my cock.

“You play so hard to get, Raf,” you snort and it turns into series of giggles again.  
“¡Puta madre!” I murmur under my nose and I turn to you to offer every help to get you off your high. But somewhere between two giggles and a snort you have fallen asleep.

I tuck you in and in the dim light of my safe lamp I can’t think of else than how beautiful you are and how lucky I am that every day I wake up to seeing you again.

### DOHA, QATAR, 7th of JANUARY, 2012

Getting back to the awaken world slowly is a luxury for me; I usually wake suddenly and jump out of bed the next moment. But you lying beside me, murmuring in a half-asleep state that it’s a day off so you certainly don’t plan to leave the bed, makes me lazy, too.

We have breakfast in bed, from where you didn’t get out for a second, not counting when you took a piss and brushed your teeth.

I leave for training and I perfectly know you will be still sleeping when I get back, so I hurry and bring a late lunch for us from one of your favourite Japanese restaurants that is nearby.

On my way I run into Mirka and she warns me to kick you out of bed because you still have to appear at the center court for a celebration after the final.

“I don’t wanna,” you whine and I barely understand you because your mouth is full with half-chewed _onigiri_.  
“Your ego want!” I remind you.  
You give me a sharp look. “But my back doesn’t!”  
“Ego and back have to fight it then,” I shrug and your face turns into WTF look and soon you burst out in laughter.

When you are calm again, you state that I didn’t bring _sake_ to the meal. I reassure you that you won’t see any alcohol while taking medication if I have any say in it.  
I can tell you are annoyed but try to not get carried away by it. Instead you stuff another rice ball in your mouth and everything is good again.  
“Keep the lion fed!” I mutter just to myself.  
“What?”  
I wonder how you can still hear me. “Er… Is Spanish saying.”  
“You are making that up!”  
“Be happy, no? I make things up for you in English!”  
You giggle. “You shouldn’t bother, Raf! You don’t have to say anything when you open your mouth. Just know what you have to put in there!”

When it finally sinks in what you exactly meant, I grab an onigiri and throw it into your face. You are stunned for a moment but shoot back soon with some _ume_. My formerly white t-shirt features purplish pickled plum patches now.

I feel the need to tackle you but of course that can’t happen with your injury, and the food fight is forgotten in either way when we hear the final begin on the television that was left on in the background.  
“This is the tale of how a tennis tournament final helped to save a hotel room from getting wrecked,” you say and we settle down to watch how Jo and Gaël start their battle for the title.

It’s fun to see it together even though at a point we both get sour by disappointment. Always hard to digest I didn’t make it to the final, and it’s even tougher on you as you wanted to defend your title.

There is no way to lament too much on it because halfway into the match you have to get ready and leave for the club.

I stay and see Jo’s win and the ceremony on TV. It’s the 20th anniversary of the tournament this year, so all the former champions are called on court and I get kind of teary when the announcer blasts your name and you walk in as the last, slowly making your way to stand in line with all the other great players from the past, and the crowd goes absolutely crazy.

I get a glimpse into the future, at least that’s how I feel. One day you will retire. One day you might play the Champions Tour. One day you can sure become a commentator, a CEO for ATP if you wish, or just a simple visitor of the tournaments all around the world. It will be every organizer’s dream to host you at their home court.

If I’m still on Tour that day, it won’t be a happy day. And I don’t think I would be around much longer after your retirement, to be honest. But you don’t have to know this yet.

When the Master of Ceremony reaches you with the microphone, you can’t utter a word for minutes because the clapping and cheering masses don’t let you. You are smiling that little bit shy but proud smile of yours and I know you enjoy yourself despite of not wanting to go before.

In the late evening we all gather for a last dinner in Qatar and around midnight we follow our previously packed and transported luggage to the airport and say goodbye to the Middle East.


	16. Part 16

### ABOVE THE CLOUDS FROM DOHA, QATAR TO MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 8th of JANUARY, 2012

We take off exactly at 1 am from Doha.

The candle lit season opening seems so far in the past when the plane is lifting higher and higher that I’m not sure it even happened. But then a hand touches mine and fingers lacing themselves into my fingers and I turn my head from the little round window to see you there at the other side, smiling softly at me. I grin back.

My previously messy mind clears and everything is falling in place.

It never matters where we are, how much we fly all around the world, or if sometimes I have no idea which city I wake up in. No matter what we did, or if it was a success or a fail. Everything that was, is behind us now and I feel lucky enough to start a new life with every new tournament.

Not that I have high expectations for _Australian Open_. Who knows though, no?

“You must be thinking of something very, very serious,” you say, smile kept on.  
“No. Just… can no wait to be in Melbourne.” It’s not a lie, that really was my last thought.  
“Happy Slam, huh?” Your grin widens and I nod, squeezing your hand.  
“Espero que sí.” I truly hope so.  
I pull your hand to my chest and close my eyes.

Hours later I have a very sudden wake and I’m looking around. You are gone and all the nearest seats are empty, too. I’m grateful for that because I have had such an erotic dream and my erection is trapped in my briefs pretty uncomfortably so I have to groan when I make the first moves.

You choose the moment when I try to adjust myself to loom in my peripherical view from the left.  
“What’s up?” you ask cheery.  
I must have something disturbing in my eyes that you notice and your face becomes a bit concerned. “Are you all right?”  
“Oh, uhm…” I stutter and can’t stand not moving anymore and I recognize the exact second when you see I am hard.  
Your face turns back to smiley and playfully you say, “I see.” And you sit down beside me. “Do you want me to help with that?”  
I stare back at you and your lifted left eyebrow is plainly horrifying. “No!” I blurt out fast.  
You giggle. “We have a bed, Raf! It’s not like we are in business class.”  
This doesn’t convince me at all. “Everybody is here! Is only a curtain to cover!”  
“Aww, shy guy is making an appearence! Hi, shy guy! How have you been doing lately? Long time no see!” And you giggle on and the voice you use to talk makes me join in.  
“¡Imposible!” I murmur in Spanish. “I can no do that, Roger. I too loud, no?”

You catch my hand and your thumb finds the junction between my middle and index fingers and you start rubbing there. It’s so good, so freaking good, and the sensation travels right to my groin and my cock throbs impatiently. I want to yank my hand away but you grab it stronger and hold on. And keep rubbing.  
“No, no…” I moan and my head rolls back to the seat. “¡Por favor…!”  
You don’t take your eyes off of me and ask what I want.

I obviously want you. But even if the others didn’t hear us, I would still die from embarrassment when I come out from behind the curtain and have too look at them. They would just know! There is your father, mine, and Mirka, as well!

I glance behind us, where the little separated place is, with the bed.  
“I think I go lie down,” I say.  
Your rubbing finger freezes on my hand and I can pull myself away.

I reach the bed and pull the curtain around it, secure them at the hems and then lie down.

It seems I could convince you to stay away because even though I wait five minutes, my heart beating rapidly and my ears straining for every small noises, you don’t follow me. Only then I can relax and let my body sink in the sheets.

I actually don’t hear anything from outside and this silence makes my aroused state even more evident. I’m restless. So much. I can’t just will it away. I still feel your touch between my fingers, like a permanent scar after your heat burnt me.

Maybe if I handle it myself, I can suppress the loud moans.

And my brain hardly registers this thought, my hand already slides into my track pants and underwear and gets a hold of my cock. It’s such a huge relief, the first real touch, and with one hand working and the other stuffed in my mouth to damp my voice, in two minutes I’m getting close to come.

My head is tipped back and my eyes are shut tight. I don’t see or hear you sneak in, but I feel your presence at once. I open my eyes and watch you stand there just beside the curtains, not coming closer to me.  
“Please don’t stop!” you whisper and the intent look you give me, combined with the last two strokes, get me over the edge.

Then you take the few steps to the bed and climb over me and kiss my now slack lips.  
“See, you can make it silent! Now better you get hard for me again!” you keep whispering after. “I want you so much, Rafa…”  
“But… your back?” This is the first thing my fogged brain can grasp in my afterglow.

You are undressing now and my whole body trembles with anticipation.

“You forgot about my back before so don’t use it as an excuse now! I’m fine. Numbed by painkillers,” you explain and bend again to steal another quick kiss. “Help me, Raf!” And you take my hands to put them on your hips.

I don’t question anything anymore just automatically push your trackpants and boxers down while you are toeing your shoes off. When you are naked above me, you take my clothes off, too, and our first full-body contact is electrifying. I can’t believe it was all it took to get me hardening again. Oh wait, I can!

You are gorgeous, all lean muscles, hard for the eyes and for others’ touch, too, but soft and velvet for the lover who works out of understanding and experience. For me!

You are sucking on my neck, earlobes, everywhere and grinding your leaking cock on my belly. I’m roaming your back with both of my hands and you lick the freckles on my cheeks and nose and then we kiss and I moan so loud.  
“Wanna fuck you,” you mumble. “But we don’t have lube, so…” you trail off and begin to draw a wet trail on my torso with your tongue, dip in my navel on the way and engulf my cock before I could say I’m too sensitive to endure that.

I groan and thrust deep into your throat. I feel myself harden fully inside that heat and you leave your hands lay flat beside my thighs, not holding my hips down, which means only one thing. I’m allowed to fuck your mouth. So I do, lifting my hips up and up over and over again until I whimper with every move.

Then you release me, lay my cock on my belly and stroke it with your palm. It’s making me crazy, it’s too much and not enough at the same time. But you suck my balls in your mouth, suck hard, and my orgasm ripples through my cock, shaking me and leaving only a quivering mess behind.

You are hovering above me again when I open my eyes and repeat your name many times, looking you in the eyes.  
You are smiling and I feel your hardness dragged back and force in the pearly fluid on my body. “Touch me, Rafael!” you ask and I wrap my hands around your cock and balls, squeezing.  
“Sí…” you breathe out and it makes me wild.

I stroke you harder and faster and when you put your head down in the crook of my neck, I whisper everything you mean to me, and saying, “Eres increíble, Rogelio!” makes you writhing in my hold and your cock spurting your seed on me.

We catch our breaths and soon you begin to giggle, then laugh, muffled by my skin.  
“That was fucking loud indeed!” you say into my ear.

For the rest of the travel I can’t lose my crimson blush.

Everybody heard, everybody knows. And I forgot! You made me forget where I was and what I was doing and I definitely gave a sex-voice show for our teams, your Dad, my Dad, and just about the full crew of the jet.

“Do you think we should eat now or when we landed? We are close,” you offer a topic that is not about sex. Though your face is still too smug, apparently thinking the same as me.  
My stomach rumbles at the thought of food and you ask what I want.  
“Whatever with olives, please!”  
“Need to regain strength, huh?” you wink at me and go fetch one of the stewardesses.

We spend the last two hours of the flight with eating pasta with bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes, cheese on it for you, and without for me, and you are feeding me with olives.

We land smoothly and leave the plane hand in hand, you never release mine, not even when we walk down on the narrow stairs.

Making it through the airport separates us because when we are spotted, people gather around us and eventually autographs are given and pictures are taken. This time it is a man who ask us for a photo together and while he is snapping some, your hand is resting at the small of my back and warmth sipping through my shirt.

The moment is so perfect. I scan your body with my look – you are unbelievably handsome in your dark jeans and smart jacket and I touch your hair, putting an unruly lock back in order. And this time I’m not bothered by the flashes. It is a rare time when I’m craving to show them all how much we belong.

Although I’m very happy nobody asks when we are going to get married!

“Quite funny it took 15 hours but lasted a day long to get here, ja?” you say, walking again, holding my hand again, and I nod and grin.

This always happens when we come to Australia and this same chat we always have, in every year since coming here together. To the actual flying time we also have to add the 8 hours time difference. So when we arrive, it’s midnight here. Theoretically we spent a whole day up in the air.

“It was a great day, even if we lost half of it somewhere!” you state in a happy voice.  
I look out to the landscape from the car during our ride and the word ’happy’ pops up again in my head. We are here. At the first Slam of the four. The happy one, as you named it years ago.

You are playing with my fingers, entwine them with yours and loosen again and when you notice I’m watching it, you smile at me wide.

I sigh and some calmness and restless awareness are washing over me at the same time. I grin back at you and despite the tiresome traveling and awesome but exhausting sex we had, I feel eager to play tennis again. I could start right now.

“We are back,” you mumble, now turned toward the window and watching the running buildings.

I squeeze your hand and whisper a soft hello to Melbourne.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 9th of JANUARY, 2012

Half of the day is spent with sleeping.

We are going for a light hit at the hotel’s tennis court in the afternoon, then go to the site and check in, getting our passes.

 _Rod Laver Arena_ seems too big at the first sight, even frightening, but I will inevitably get used to it again. So far I’m only intimidated.

You never have such problems, you come here as if you were at home and say you can hardly wait to come down for practice tomorrow.

We catch a nice early dinner at the Italian restaurant of the hotel and go out to the terrace where we run into some of the other guys also staying here. I chat with Marc and Feli and you are having a very loud laugh with Andy Murray at some joke I don’t even get. We all have a drink to the whole players’ body meeting again and to a successful Australian Open.

Jetlag is kicking in, I can tell the others are also in the same condition, so we say goodnight to them and go back to our suite.

Outside on our balcony there is a huge rattan furniture, kind of an armchair, kind of a bed and you find a bunch of plaids and pillows and take them out there and make a cocoon and we are staying here for a while, sipping beer and enjoying the sunset.

It’s a busy area of the city with street noises, even if they don’t always reach the 15th floor that much. Despite of that, one can see the ocean and catch the waving sound and I’m hearing this one single bird singing and I could stay here forever, in your arms, lying flushed to your chest, kept warm by your body heat. We should just hire someone to always bring food for us and we could grow fat in the same position during the years, and die together.

When I tell my idea to you, you laugh. “Wouldn’t we ever make love then?”  
Oh, yes, I have to rethink my theory, scratch out half the time of eating and replace it with sex. Now it’s perfecto!  
“Uhum… And when do we play?” you ask.  
“Ah… You too down to earth again, Rogi!” I sigh.  
“What? You are more down to earth! I am a dreamer,” you defend yourself and actually you are right.  
“Is because I have everything I wished,” I say and fold my arms tighter around you to make sure you know what I mean. “You have things to dream of. Still need the Davis Cup and Olympic Gold, no?” I add playfully and giggles escape my lips when I hear your sudden intake of breath.  
You grab my jaw and turn my head to face you. You are looking into my eyes seriously.  
“Just shut up, will you?” you say and close the gap between us to kiss me.

You smell and taste like beer and before I get lost in sensations, I think I could really move in to this balcony and live here with you until my days end.

We need this exact same furniture for home!

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 10th of JANUARY, 2012

You are sitting at the dining table, eating ham and eggs when I bounce in.

“Morning,” you greet me. “There are plain eggs, if you want.”  
I do want, I’m starving, but I want something else even more. So I walk to you, lace my fingers in your hair at your nape and pull, then bend to get my morning kiss.  
You blush when I let you go. “I taste like ham! You should think twice before your tongue goes in my mouth!” You try to cover your shaken state with small giggles and being smart.

I grin and sit down across you, helping myself with a huge amount of scrambled eggs and bread rolls. “What time is it?”  
“Noon,” you reply. “I train at 2 pm, you at 4.”  
“I can no believe I sleep so much! I dream of you. You were like… angel. Wings and all.” I put honey on my bun and eat it to the eggs.  
“And?” you ask, looking positively interested.  
“Oh, then I knew it, I saw you wings! You looked very nice. But I got angry, shouted that is no fair, must be why you can play like god. I think I scared you. But you ask if it is advantage then how I beat you so much, no? You were smartass even as angel!”  
You snort. “That is where our story always go to, ja?” And you look me in the eye, leaned forward on your elbows and put on the press conference poker face. “Rafa, how can you beat me that many times?”  
“Because I too pretty to be beaten, no? The best bend for me too.” And I flash my shiniest smile at you and bat my lashes. “Even you stop and stare in match, no?”  
You make a bored and mocking face. “I tell you I don’t. In those five-setters I definitely never stop and stare, Rafa!”  
“I know. I do! And wished you do too.” I sigh.  
“What?”  
“Before.”  
“Before what?”  
“Wimbledon, no?”  
For an instant I think you are going to play dense on but then your eyes soften and you smile at me warmly. Wimbledon is like a magic word between us.

“But it’s very true I bend for you!” you finish it off with such a dirty joke and a bite of food almost goes in the wrong way in my throat.  
“You know I did stare! Just tried not to, on court. Funny you still went into my head so much, even when I could ignore how stunning you were,” you tell me and I feel even my back is blushing. There is just something in your eyes, such depth, and on the bottom of that depth there is your love and desire for me.  
“Uhum… You admit it always… Then you try deny it,” I stutter, very much bothered by your intensity. “Back?” I mumble to gain some time to clear my mind.  
“Good. I slept really well, there is no pain. You done?”  
I nod and you ask me to come with you to your very first practice on Rod Laver Arena.

So we pack our gear and you drive us to the site. You always drive yourself here in Melbourne, enjoying the challenge of the left-hand traffic they have down under.

We meet your team at the arena and walk in on it. My breath catches in my throat when I’m inside the first time. This place gets me every year.  
“You gonna win many matches here, so relax!” you tell me while dropping your stuff at the benches. “The arena loves you, Rafael. Trust me! Think of that we got together here!”

But it’s exactly that! Those two weeks before the 2009 final, and we finally coming together, were stressful for me. That unsettling feeling always creeps on me and doesn’t leave me alone for a couple of days whenever the Australian Open begins.

I mumble something unitelligent and find a place in the shadows to watch you.

Slowly I calm down, seeing you meticulously going through all type of shots and warming up. You are such a sight. Wearing your _Federer Express_ t-shirt that is a basic mock to everybody living and walking on this planet, and moving like… like an angel! Seemingly this thought will follow me all day long.

I don’t mind and you are really glowing in the sunshine.

I’m completely relaxed when you start to goof around and wink at me from the court.

Paul is scolding you, much alike to a daddy with his kid, and the photographers lingering around taking tons of pictures of that scene. I understand he is telling you he will send me off on my way if you don’t stop being childish. So you behave.

I am next in practice schedule and you are about to finish when my team members arrive. On your way leaving the court for a shower and change, you stop to watch how Titín is stretching my body.  
I know you are looking and I turn to wave at you and catch the very moment when Paul is passing you and smacks your head upside-down for staring. You jump and shriek like a woman and everybody has the best laugh of the day.

From then on my practice is going super smoothly and I’m surprised I feel so confident on the arena court the first day. You have put me in such ease.

In bed at night I recall another evening when I had Ozee with me. The scene is very similar now, except I have also my _Federbear_ with me and it makes you come to a sudden halt, coming out of the bathroom.  
“No, no, no, no!” you chant. “You definitely won’t!”

As I said, very similar reaction! I pout.  
“Don’t look at me like that, Rafi! It’s not up to discuss because you sleep with the real thing! And by any chance, do you realize these two take up a whole suitcase?”  
I nod stubbornly. “My suitcase, no? Not your business, Mr Real Thing!” Then I hold out the two plushies for you. “Put them in armchairs! Mandante!”  
“I’m not stupid, Rafa, I know that means dictator, okay?” you snatch the toys from me and take them to the two monstrous armchairs we have at the other corner.  
“¡De puta madre! Make them comfortable, sí?”  
You look back at me with pissy eyes for a second but then I see a smile hiding in them, though it hasn’t reached your lips yet.  
“Sí, Su Alteza Real el Princípe de tenis!” you say and my mouth stays hung open.  
“Perfecto!”  
“I know,” you say, grinning proudly and arranging the animals in the chairs.  
“Rogi?”  
“Hm?”  
“If I am royal highness the prince of tennis, who you are?”  
You walk back to the bed and climb in, over me. “The king of course, who else?”  
I chuckle. “Is normal the prince beat the king?”  
“Oh please, stop ruining my moments! Learn your place and be a good crown prince to me!” you say and settle down on my body. My legs automatically wrap around your waist and arms around your shoulders. It’s the most natural thing in the world.  
“You think you can have me on all fours now, my king?” I ask softly.  
Your look is turning dark with want but you sigh. “Not yet, Rafa. Maybe I will see tomorrow.”  
“Sleep then. Tomorrow come sooner.”

We are kissing and just holding each other gently until you pick up something from the pillow and show me.

A feather.

We giggle.  
“Is from your wings,” I state. “Is in your name too, no? Featherer.”  
“You are too smart. I’m busted now. I hope I can trust you and you won’t tell anybody that I am an angel king!”  
“Hmm, I not know, Roger. You should shut me up somehow, no? Make sure I…”

Your lips catch mine all of a sudden and the night ends in the longest goodnight kiss of all time.


	17. Part 17

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 11th of JANUARY, 2012

I’m up at 8 am to watch Real Madrid win over Malaga and get into the _Copa del Rey_ quarter-finals.

The day starts fabulously, even more because you say your back feels really nice and you try to have a full speed and intensity practice today to see how it cooperates.  
And you are not pissed off at me because I woke you up with my jumping and cussing in bed while seeing the fútbol. Instead you get your swimming shorts and leave for the pool.

I train early, after all I was up early, too, so no time to waste, no? And your practice session is following mine, around 1 pm. At four we are both back in the hotel and we have a free afternoon and evening. And you claim you feel fantástico! Really, really very good news!

“Let’s go shopping!” you say and I grunt, then remain silent. Shopping is not among my favourite sparetime activities. “Oh come on, Raf, just come with me and I promise we go to sports stores and candy shops and I take you to that fave place of yours to get you grilled fish! My treat!”

Oh, negotiating. I think I am the only one in the world who can come out of that successfully, despite your reasoning skills.

“Hmm, but tomorrow you play ping-pong with me then, Rogi! I need practice before I play fans, no wanna be total clumsy.”  
Your eyebrows are in a knot. “If I play ping-pong with you, you have to come swimming with me every morning. You already skipped today,” you say.  
I groan again. You go to swim at the hotel pool every morning, it’s a tradition, and indeed it is only an elevator-ride from our room, but I’m such a bad swimmer, I try to avoid it as often as I can.  
“This talk is about shopping, no? I come shopping, you play ping-pong with me!” I hold my ground.  
“No. You come shopping and I take you to the stores you like and feed you!” You are standing there with your hands on your hips, in a ready-to-strike-back pose.  
I have to loosen up in some matters, I see. “I come to swim once. Tomorrow. Then we play ping-pong after! Deal?”  
You hold out your hand and I take it to shake. You grin. “I won!”  
“No think so! I get more,” I wink at you but you don’t seem to mind.

This way it happens that the sunset finds us in the _Grossi Florentino Grill_ after a few hours of wandering the city and visiting just about every designer and sport brand stores, then the little sweets shop I love so much.  
You didn’t even buy anything much but looked at the collections. The biggest purchase was actually a dress for Mirka. Just because I managed to convince you that I absolutely didn’t need any new suits.

I’m happy with the bag of chocolate, pralinés and candies I got.

I’m eating the house’s grilled fish with rice and mushrooms. They mixed this for me of two different dishes. One would think you are the difficult eater, with all your poised taste of excellence. But no, I am the picky one. You usually choose from the menu and whatever the dish contains, you eat it, being picky only with wine and coffee.

So you are having some roasted fish and spaghetti with tomato, garlic, almond and chilli pesto. You order white wine for me and rosé for yourself.

As for dessert, we end up sharing your tiramisù and my lemon, chocolate and raspberry chianti sorbet. I never thought these things would go well together but I believe I can’t eat tiramisù without lemon ice cream anymore.  
You are laughing so loud when I tell you this, that some of the heads around us turn and look curiously, clearly wondering what could be so funny for Roger Federer. I put on my knowing smile when a lady stares straight into my eyes. She ducks her head and blushes deep.

We finish our dinner with a liqueur coffee and a hot chocolate. The former for you, the latter for me.  
“You carry me home, Rog. I am full,” I complain and don’t feel any strength to move from our table.  
“Have a nice night then, spent here, dear,” you giggle. “I can’t carry anything with my poor back.”  
I huff. “You so… fragile!” I tell you, proud that I remembered a difficult word.  
You just smile. “I can show you how fragile I am not. If only you came back to the hotel with me!”

I don’t need more encouragement and we take a beeline to the hotel, already kissing and touching in the elevator – where we almost leave the shopping bags forgotten –, and in the empty corridor, stopping at every other step.  
When inside, you lock the door and put the bags aside while I’m undressing on my way to the bedroom, dropping my clothes on the floor.

I sit on the bed when you come in, watching me all the time, shrugging off your clothes and chucking them onto a chair. Then you walk – completely naked, your cock half hard and moving with every step –, to the nightstand and pull out the little drawer to get the lube. I get goosebumps.  
“On all fours, Rafa!” you command me and I swallow hard and obey.

I ask if you are sure, if your back is really all right, but you shush me and say you want to hear me only moan and talk nonsense from now on. I giggle but stop abruptly when you climb behind me and push my head down. I feel myself harden further just by this.

You are smoothing my back and thighs, then go for my bits with one hand, reaching forward between my opened legs, and at the very same time, you lick a long stripe from my balls to the tailbone, across my crack. I wasn’t ready for this and I jump and whimper. I got fully erect.

You repeat the same moves a few times, then stop at my entrance and dip your tongue in, more and more deep with every try. Your hand never stops stroking me and I almost feel ashamed of what an enermous amount of precome I leak all over the bed cover.

No sounds come from you but I make up for it when you replace your tongue with a finger. No lube yet, only the spit helping. For a short moment I think we should have taken a shower before sex, but I know you don’t care, so why should I?

“I’m gonna fuck you hard and fast, Rafa,” you whisper and touch my spot inside and squeeze my cock. I’m a shivering mess and entirely at your mercy. “You don’t have to do a thing but feel me.”

I do feel you when you put two slicked fingers in me, then when you tap the head of your cock to my hole a couple of times and in the end slowly but firmly enter me. I can’t utter a word. I only moan, how you wanted, and you hiss with every long, rapid thrust, holding my hips with both of your hands in a death grip, until a last forceful scrape on my sweet spot makes me shudder and come untouched onto the bed.

The rhythmic squeezing inside of me rips your orgasm out of you and you collapse on my back, pushing me down. Your cock slides out and you roll off of me.  
“So good,” you moan.  
I turn my head toward you and my hand finds yours and we stay like this for long, just breathing loud, and I watch your chest lift and sink and the sweat that made your hair wet glistening on your skin.

“I don’t wanna get up,” you murmur but opposite of your words, you turn to me again and touch my hair, neck, slide your palm down on my back and first smooth then pinch my asscheek.  
I squeak and you chuckle, then slip your index finger back in my ass, making me moan again and lift my hip to thrust back into your touch. “Want more?” you ask.  
I lift my head and look at you. Yours is beside mine, bent close. “I want kiss…”  
And you capture my lips and swallow the end of my sentence. Kissing was always a weak spot for me and now it’s madness. My whole body trembles with it. You also keep moving your finger in me and all the sensations make me dizzy.  
“More then, yes?” you ask again when your lips are free. I nod.  
You smile at me. “Where is your new toy, Raf. I believe I promised to show you it’s safe.”

Just the mere thought of it makes me lose my mind and I’m hardly able to recall where I packed it away. In the end you find it, after digging in two of my suitcases and the waiting not only didn’t make my cock soften but made me just more excited.

“You take the lead now and please, if I scream, turn the damn vibration off!” you say and squeeze lube on the toy after you find a comfortable pose, lying on your back with pulled up legs.  
I watch you mesmerized. I want to do it, to insert the little thing inside you, but for the first time it’s better if you do it to yourself. It’s quite thin and you don’t have any problems with leading it in. I love to see your hands working on yourself, one handling the toy, the other circling your belly and occasionally touching your hardening cock.  
You let your legs fall flat on the bed again and nod to me.

I get above you and bend to kiss you. When I turn the vibration on to first level, your waist shoots up from the bed and you bite my tongue. I better remember not to keep it in your mouth next time!

You look fascinating. Trashing about, throwing your head right and left and chanting _’Shit, shit, shit!’_ over and over. And you are already hard again.  
We kiss and touch. You are holding on me kind of desperately after the second level and the third makes you shriek and _’shit’_ turns into _’Rafa’_ , and you lose it when I put it on the fourth, screaming, ”Enough!”  
I turn it off at once, put the remote away safely on the nightstand and carefully pull the toy out of you.

You are heaving and mumbling words I don’t understand and I try to soothe you, comb your hair back out of your face, and kiss your face and lips gently. You are moaning loud, continuously, and it’s always a bit scary to see you fall apart like this. But also precious. This side of yours is kept hidden, only I am allowed to see.

“Rogelio…” I say and the name brings you back and you open your eyes and smile weakly. “What you want me to do?” I ask.  
“Get in me!” you answer and though we don’t really switch roles during one session, I still do what you ask for.  
I’m sliding slowly in and out of you until we come again and you look utterly demolished. I don’t let you fall asleep, instead I drag you to the shower and wash us clean, then tear the cover off the bed and throw it aside and put you under the blanket.

You are giggling like a fool, like someone who really, really lost it. I bring you some of my chocolate and make you eat it. Your blood sugar level must be low after so much orgasm, and I barely care of your whining about having to brush your teeth again.

“Crazy,” you say when you gain some of your braincells back.  
I have to laugh. “What happen on 7th level?”  
“Well, the lucky who can go that far gets it mentioned in his resumé, right beside all the won Grand Slams, I think! You have to try it, you are behind in Slams!” you joke and I know you are all right now.  
I stick out my tongue at you. “I plan better. I beat you in finals and win more!”  
“Okay, that was the third time you said it in 36 hours. Just because you fuck me good, don’t think you can get away with punching my ego in the face!”

I’m watching you getting sort of pissed off but I don’t think it’s anything serious. And indeed when I reach out for you, you meet me at halfway and our bodies entwine and fold and fit together perfectly, we lie in our nest.  
“I am happy, Roger!” I whisper.  
“Me too,” you respond in a sleepy voice.

You tuck your head under my jaw and I can feel your smile on my skin.

I hope everybody has at least one such perfect day in their lives! One that they can always remember of as a day when they were truly loved.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 12th of JANUARY, 2012

Swimming in the early morning is not that bad after all. Though I mostly just splashing about while you are swimming 50 lengths in the 25 meters long pool, then take a break, and go another 70 lengths later. I do quick math and it equals 3 kms.

I don’t have to say, for long minutes I’m totally lost in watching your strong freestyle strokes. I always wondered how a mountain man could be a better swimmer than a sea man. Then again, it also must be the twisted joke of Fate.

You are all in to teach me how to do the turns underwater but I am an antitalent and more intersted in your wet body, the shorts hugging your hips and thighs deliciously.  
We end up floating in water, hugging each other and kissing and I do enjoy this part. Very much. Unfortunately our time is up and we have to leave if we don’t want other guests of the hotel run into us.

I have an appointment to meet up with KIA’s crew. As KIA is one of my main sponsors, every year I sort of receive the symbolical key to the cars that will carry the players around the city during the tournament.  
This year so many people arrive to attend the event that in the end they need to steal me away from the crowd and rush me into a car that takes me back to the _Tennis Garden_.

I just catch the end of your practice and hide in the dark shadows of the tunnel when you are walking through, alone because Paul and Severin are still packing some stuff and chatting with photographers.

You look dangerously sexy. T-shirt sweaty and wrinkled, hair framing your face in unruly, wet tresses.

I scare the living shit out of you when I loom out, reaching for you and yank you into the shadowy passway. You utter your girliest shriek and almost jump out of your skin.  
“You crazy,” you mumble, hand pressed on your heart, chest heaving.  
“¡Hola, Rogelio!” I grin and then you look at me and your posture changes, you drop your bags on the ground and push me back into the wall, wildly kissing me.  
My knees instantly go weak and I moan into the licks but we can’t enjoy it long because we hear your trainers coming closer.  
You step away and smooth my polo shirt. “Mine doesn’t matter,” you giggle. When Seve and Paul walk up to us you add that we just agreed to go and play some table tennis but they both look like ones having some other ideas of what we would have liked to do.  
“Your flush is too transparent,” you state and the colour of my cheeks get probably redder.

In the locker room we meet some of our fellows, among them there is Novak who has just come out of the showers, obviously after his training. His face sort of lights up and he asks us if we want to join him and Janko Tipsarevic to grab something to eat in the players’ lounge.  
You say, “Sure!”, and I shrug nonchalantly.

So we go and have a late lunch. I crave plain french fries, so I have them, and I watch Nole ducking his head and feeling pretty envious every time you reach over and steal a piece of fries from my plate.  
You must be in your utterly generous mood because you invite them to play ping-pong doubles with us. They – especially Novak –, eagerly agree and I’m sure you only wanted to put him in ease. It’s really very nice of you.  
Playing with them turns out to be major fun and good practice.

We play almost an hour before I have to leave for my practice session, and from there straight to _St. Kilda_ where I have interviews and fan meeting, connected to the _Champions Drink Responsibly_ campaign.

They take tons of photos of me with some very tasty-looking Bacardi drink that I can’t have until the shooting ends, and that they take away from me when it’s over because I have other duties – taking pictures with fans, drawing winners, and play ping-pong with them.

I never get to drink a gulp but later I get a few bottles of Bacardi and when I’m back at the hotel, we open one and drink most of it.  
We are outside on the balcony again, it quickly became our favourite place. The sun is setting and we watch it dive into the ocean and slowly disappear. The temperature almost immediately drops but the alcohol keep us warm.  
“You excited?” I ask and you instantly know I think of the draw being held tomorrow.  
You nod. “Actually yes. Like, first time in years, you know. I sense some madness coming.”  
“Wish I know what you mean, Rog!”  
You shrug and gulp down half a glass of your drink. “Just that it’s the first slam since forever where we can end up in the same half.”  
“You want?” I ask but from your widened eyes I already know your answer.  
“In my nightmares, Rafa!”  
“Sí, it suck you can no beat me to reach the final then!” I snicker.  
“Yeah, yeah, you better erase that smug look from your face! You can never know what happens! What I mean is just that we can’t meet in the final in either way. One of us would be out in the semi. That’s what sucks!”  
I sigh and cuddle closer to your side. “I pretend the semi is the final then.”  
You laugh and drop a kiss on my hair.

We stay out here and watch the lights of the streets and listen to the waving of the darkening sea far out there for long before we retreat to bed.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 13th of JANUARY, 2012

In the morning you are gone early. Paul visits the drawing ceremony, they will interview him, so you guys arranged the practice right after that.

I’m in bed, eating my breakfast when it begins and the bite, half chewed, stops in my mouth when Novak’s name appears in the first place of the upper half, and mine is there at the very last place of the bottom. First seed and second.

Then the lucky (or unlucky) hand draws the number of either the 3rd or 4th seed out of the cup, the very same cup the winner will receive. This name will go to the upper half, and potentionally meet Nole in the semi-finals. If it’s you, then we avoided each other and can have a final between us.

But the tag says seed 4th. Andy Murray. I let out that breath I didn’t know I was holding.

It means you are drawn into my half. First time in seven years at a Grand Slam.

As proof, they show the other number, too, and I read it out in my mind.

No. 3. ROGER FEDERER.

The computer makes it appear in the bottom half and it’s official now.

I reach for my phone to text you but it’s already buzzing in my palm. You were faster.

**’Meet me in the semifinal? R’**

My grin is huge, almost splitting my face. I write back **’I be there!!!!!!!!!!!! :) xxxxx’** , and soon you send me the shortest video ever, blowing a kiss to me, then waving.

I feel foolishly happy and bouncy, replaying the video many times and wondering why NIKE never sent me this white t-shirt with a black and white photo on it that you are wearing. I want! It’s okay they don’t assume I want your _Roger That_ shirt (I do wear yours when I’m not in public!), but this picture on the t-shirt is neutral enough for both of us. I should have a chat about this with Tuts, the NIKE representative on my team!

Later, after my training in the afternoon, we spend the last truly calm time together, driving to the St. Kilda beach and walking aroud in the sand with our shoes carried in our hands and legs of pants rolled up.

I’m taking photos of the sun setting again and you laugh at me. I already have tons of them, but never enough. I try to explain but my English fails so I vaguely swing my hands and hope you understand.  
“It soothes your islander heart, I get it,” you nod and hold me closer to you while walking on. “We will be at home again soon, don’t worry!”  
“No before the semi-final!” I insist.  
“No,” you smile, “definitely only after, and as one of us will win the semi and get in the final, I guess we stay till the last day!”  
“Sí. I hope you stay and see my final after I beat you in the semi, Roger!” I bump my shoulder into yours.  
“Well, with that shaky preparation of yours and my brilliant form I sure plan it in the other way, Rafa!”  
“¡Vamos a ver, Rogelio!” I grin.  
“Was that let’s see?”  
“Sí. Perfecto!” I praise you and I really want to run back to the hotel and have my dirty way with you at this moment, but for the peaceful walk’s sake I suppress the urge to jump on you I get everytime you talk or understand Spanish.

Instead I change the subject. “Why you no come to Kids Day with me tomorrow?”  
You giggle. “Because you will be there with Novak?”  
I make a face and you add, “Raf, he is World No.1 and you are No.2. Can I be just the lazy No.3 now and stay in bed while you are making appearences everywhere early in the morning? I did my fair share of leading this circus! Besides, it’s about time Nole lives up to his title! I never saw a worse No.1. You show him how it’s supposed to be done!”  
“World No.3 my ass. You still Boss, no matter what!” I roll my eyes at you and you wink at me and we walk on right beside the waterline until it’s too dark to properly see.

Only then we return to the car and you let me drive us back to the hotel.

After dinner you are the first in the bathroom and though I hurry, I find you already asleep when I come to bed.

Snuggled up to your side, I recall the colours of the clouds and the sounds of the ocean before my mind shuts down for the night.


	18. Part 18

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 14th of JANUARY, 2012

I’m shuffling around in the morning – searching for the pair of my sock –, when you stir in bed and groan even before opening your eyes.

“What, Rogi? Your back?” I ask, concerned, but you move to demonstrate everything is all right with it.

“Just the meeting with ATP head today!” you mutter and sit up and I can see you watching me from the corner of my eye while I’m bent over a suitcase.

I turn and mumble about stupid socks and you chuckle.

“Is the new head you wanted, no? Be happy!” I say.

You freeze. “Don’t start that again, Rafa! And nor the topic of two years ranking, please! I cannot ever support that so better we just drop this and try to live through this meeting!”

“You started!” I retort and you let your body fall back in bed with a desperate and too dramatic huff.

We both get too intense and most of the time very sulky in the end whenever we discuss the issues of ranking systems and prize money. We were campaigning for different candidates for the ATP boss election, too. More like, I supported one, and you pulled out from behind him. Therefore, the other guy got the job. The only thing we agree on is the shortening of the Tour. It will already happen this year when the schedule ends in November. But to have decisions about the remaining hot topics we still have to work. And now work with a new head of ATP. But that can wait until later.

Now I also don’t wanna argue again, so I sit on the edge of the bed and tickle your thigh. You kick under the blanket and giggle, then look at me, smiling.

“I gotta go,” I sigh.

You sit again and we kiss. I would give much for staying.

“Have fun, Rafi! See you later!” you say and I drag myself up, put on socks – another new pair of sock because I never found the piece I was looking for –, and shoes, and try to put my hair in some order, in which I fail spectacularly.

“Bed hair suits you, my dear boyfriend!” you snicker and I’m staring at you, partly because I see that ’I wanna devour you!’ look in your eyes, and partly because you just hardly ever call me boyfriend.

“Go show them you just had some wild sex!” you go on, still giggling madly.

“But I not!”

You shrug. “If you stay a minute longer, you might!”

I wish. So much!

But I’m already running a bit late so I consider myself ready to leave and escape your seriously inviting looks you shoot toward me.

“Kick Novak’s ass!” you shout after me before I close the door of the suite.

Kids Day is fun. I play doubles with an about 9 years old little guy and I’m thinking I really can’t remember if I was that good at 9!

Then Nole arrives and joins us, at the other side of the net. The situation is way too familiar and I can’t help but aim a tricky shot at his body. It hits him with full speed and he collapses and acts dead. Kim Clijsters goes over and does CPR on him.

“That is for beating me six times last year!” I shout to him and the audience is laughing.

Later during my practice you text me, telling me you are at the pre-tournament press conference in the _Media Garden_ , and send me a photo, smiling, beautiful, radiating, chilled, surrounded by the colourful flowers. At that moment I can feel how ready you are to take on the whole wide world again.

I don’t think I have felt such peace in you for a long time, but the road from last year US Open until now was leading to this, I know it somehow.

Not long before the meeting with ATP and the Players’ Council starts we join again. You are still grumpy about it, but you say it has to be done, so we leave for the conference room at the hotel. At least we have it another elevator ride distance from us. Probably it’s the only thing good in it.

The meeting goes how it always does. I’m not surprised any of the issues are solved or at least agreed on. _Brad Drewett,_ the new ATP president is not who I wanted here, but what could I do now. He is elected after all. I can only hope he does something good to us.

What bothers me more, and slowly starts to piss me off, is that you are just sitting here and listening to everybody talking, but not saying a word.

Back in our suite, during showering and even brushing our teeth, we are having the same heated argument as always, about calendar, money, even court covers. We are going in circles. Over and over.

Finally you say what you always say. “If I don’t agree with most of the impossible demands of others, but my vice-president does, he is the one to talk, Rafa! In this case you are the one. I certainly won’t ever stand on the two years ranking’s side, I told you a year ago, I told you the last week, told you yesterday and this morning, too! I didn’t think you needed more to see that I was not behind you in this!”

I’m staring back at you, trying to not blast. “Fine!” I say and grab my pillow and Ozee and a spare plaid from the sofa.

“What do you think you are doing?” you ask and I hear from your tone that you are getting annoyed.

“Sleep in the joint room,” I answer and turn to leave.

You are right behind me with two quick steps and catch my arm to spin me back to face you. “No, Raf, please! It’s too silly to cost us that much!” Your look is not pleading but hopeful.

“I know,” I admit, my head hung. “Just let me, Roger! Give some time to calm!”

You search my face for any sign of changing my mind but definitely don’t see a single one, so you give it up for now and allow me to walk out of the room.

I lie awake for almost an hour, alone, clutching on Ozee and trying to imagine it’s you, but of course without success.

I know it’s stupid to get this distracted and frustrated every time we have to deal with Council business but I can’t help it. I either do it passionately or I should resign as a vice-president. Maybe I really should. I already wanted but you talked me out of it last time.

I sigh.

I know I won’t get any calmer soon but I also can’t fall asleep like this. So I decide to come out of my pissy bubble and crawl back into bed with you.

It’s too late to say sorry or any other niceties because you are already sleeping. Your forehead is wrinkled and your eyebrows are creased with obvious worry and I don’t like that we do this to each other. I shouldn’t be that stubborn.

I bury my fingers into your hair and tenderly massage your scalp a bit. I don’t know if it’s only my imagination playing with me, or your facial features are really smoothening by my touch.

You don’t wake up and I stay up long, thinking that you were always right in one thing. Some problems shouldn’t ever enter our bedroom.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 15th of JANUARY, 2012

Today doesn’t seem any different from other pre-tournament days when we both go practising and do our duties.

Up until I am at the Garden, meeting the journalists from all over the world, first the English spoken ones, then the Spanish ones, separatedly.

The international members are mostly interested in only what happened at the meeting yesterday, so I tell them no consensus was really made. I shrug uncomfortably under the English-talking guys’ looks and stumble through the presser somehow.

When I face the Spanish I can finally breathe and talk more freely, actually understanding them and having the ability to express myself in a clear way without forcing my brain too much.

Surprisingly it’s them who kind of piss me off in the end, pushing the topic of the new ATP chairman and the non-decisions at the official meeting.

I probably get too involved again, talking about that some of the other players share my opinion and still, no matter that the majority of us are on the same side, nothing really happened yet. It feels like everything was swept under the carpet with the excuse that we can meet again later, at the North-American leg of the Tour, in March, and till then the head will see into problems and solutions more.

The guys apparently see I’m getting irritated and suddenly one of them asks if the top players are with me in the ideas of changing things.

I can only say that some of them, yes. Others not.

And then a journalist asks if I hint about Roger Federer as well when I say others don’t agree with me.

I stare back at him. Then I reply yes.

He asks me to talk about this in more detail. Why do I think Roger doesn’t want the changes?

And that is the point when I say those fatal words about you. They just fly from my lips in Spanish, it’s even too easy to rant about how you are so lucky to have such an extraordinary body and health, never really injured seriously, and will be able to end your career still healthy and as fresh as a rose. While others, like me, very likely won’t. Hard courts are cruel on us, the lenght of the season too demanding and all this could be avoided if we had the two years ranking system, allowing guys with injuries still come back into the Tour without dropping too many places.

I tell them you were just listening to others talking and acted too much of a gentleman to back up our needs. So I who opened his mouth seemed the whiny one again who always has something he doesn’t like…

Later, after my practice I find your text.

**’WTF, Raf???? Rose?’**

I want to play it off a bit jokingly and send back that it’s only a Spanish saying but somehow my guts tell me you don’t feel that lightly about this. You didn’t even sign the message, which you always do with your ’R’, no matter how odd it is. This can’t be good. So I stay silent and start to think that maybe I made a big mistake.

You wait for me in our suite, pacing left and right, and push an online extract of my press conference under my nose at the very moment I enter. I read it and I can see where this is going now. It sounds all so wrong.

All my words are plastered everywhere in the world, it happened probably within an hour, and in English, too. It all seems bad, I really said these, it’s not even twisted in any way and still looks extremely harsh and rude. It didn’t feel this mean when I spoke.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, tone icy, demanding explanation.

“They asked.” I duck my head. I know it’s not a proper excuse. Not nearly enough.

You suck in a deep breath and let it out through your nose. I can sense you are furious and barely able to keep your emotions at bay.

Your voice is still contained when you talk. “The only thing, the only one that I always asked was not to talk about council issues to the press! The fucking press, Rafa! I accept you have another idea of how to go on with the Tour. I accept you would like different stuff for yourself, stuff that fits your own game more. I understand you are frustrated. What I don’t get is why you don’t understand that I can’t raise my voice for your stupid ranking change or dropping tournaments from the calendar! How do you think I could look all the lower ranked guys in the eye when they don’t get enough places to play at, or when they can’t climb up in the ranking just because no matter how much they win, two years’ points will mostly be in the top guys’ favour? And didn’t I tell you this many times? Haven’t you ever listened to me?”

You are shouting in the end and panting. All control lost.

“And what now?” you go on. “You got pissed off? And called me names? Is it any better? Did it help you gain anything? You wanted me to get animated and talk? Here you go, I talk now! Are you pleased? And just why, why did you have to go public with this?”

“I did no think it will be so bad,” I mumble.

You stop in track and stare at my face, I can feel your gaze on me, burning my skin, even if I don’t look back at you.

“It does come off quite bad! And it’s everywhere, Rafa! All Hell broke loose and just before you got back, Mirka called and said they are turning down dozens of people wanting to contact me and ask about this superhot falling out we have!”

I look up, I feel frightened just for a second. “We no have a fall out!” I state, searching your face for confirmation.

You dismiss it with a hand gesture.

I feel ashamed. You seem upset. I didn’t want this to happen.

Suddenly I feel very tired and walk to the couch and collapse on it.

“I sorry, Roger! I no think about what I said.”

You begin to pace again. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you said, Raf! I mean, yeah, some of that is hurtful, I admit. That you say I sit back and let others talk and seem bad while my image stays immaculate…”

I want to cut you off and explain but you hold your hand up, not having any of it, and the words are frozen in my throat.

“I can’t wrap my mind around how you could think that you just utter such things and it goes smoothly from there on!” you continue. “And I find it pretty low you told all this to the Spanish press, you know.”

“But…” I chime in and wait to see if you are willing to hear me out. When you stop and listen, I go on. “I talk of it in Spanish because I want to be sure I say what I want, no? Is hard to me in English to explain. Spanish is safe, no?”

You sigh. It sounds desperate.

“Does that mean you said exactly what you wanted then? I mean, if that’s true, you really feel like that and you really think that way of me,” you sigh again and sit down beside me.

We stay mute and stare at the floor for a while.

“You know, first I kinda laughed at you calling me a rose and saying what an extraordinary body I have,” you tell me and giggle just a bit, though it dies very fast. “If that’s how you cuss me out…”

“I no cuss you out, Roger!” I interrupt vehemently. “I frustrated, no?”

You shrug. “Still, I told you, there was always only one thing I asked for: not to run to the press with these issues! This is private, among the players and ATP. Now everybody will think we are a bunch of barking idiots who fight for the bone. And you perfectly know, after this, that you said what you said, journos will ask the others, too. So in upcoming pressers this will be the hottest topic, instead of matches. How bad that is? Fucking up the beginning of the tourno so much!”

I can’t answer that. There is not much more to say now.

“What you want me do, Roger?”

You are just shaking your head.

“Want me to say sorry again?” I ask.

“Raf, it’s not…”

“Because I am sorry, no? I feel bad and sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you shrug slightly.

“Is no okay. I stupid. I no want you forgive me just so easy.”

Surprisingly you begin to giggle again. “Do you want me to spank you, or what?”

I can’t join to your lifting mood. The weight of this heavy conversation is too much for me right now and I know I can’t face you freely, I can’t look you honestly in the eye.

“I will go, Rogi,” I say. “I can no stay. I need some time to think, hope you understand!”

I glance at you and see you staring at me. I almost hear the wheels in your head turning and in the end you don’t protest, just grab my hand and say that I have to know this is not what you want and it’s not necessary.

“Is necessary for me,” I state. “I promise I will no talk about this anymore to the press. But let me go and have some space to clear my head!”

I’m sure you have a flashback to last night when I wanted to be alone. “Rafa… I… Please, just no!” You hold my hand in both of yours now and doing it tighter and tighter by the minute. “We have matches tomorrow, don’t you think this will mess with us?”

“Maybe. But I can no pretend nothing happened. I think it will be better for you too. I just feel guilty and I no want you worry because I fucked up and can no sleep, no? So let me go?”

“You come back any soon?” you ask quietly, starting to realize I am serious about this and won’t let you talk me out of it.

“I not know, Rogi.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Marc. Just down the corridor.”

You nod. “All right. On one condition! You don’t play hide and seek! You answer your phone when I call or text!”

Your face is serious, I couldn’t argue even if I wanted. “Sí.”

“Uhm… I’m sorry I shouted so much!” you say and lift my hand to your lips to lightly kiss my knuckles.

It’s so sweet, too much for my heart at the moment, so I pull my hand out of your hold, stand, and go for the door with that momentum. I open it and step outside, looking back for a second before I close it behind me.

I can see the whole living room where you are still sitting on the couch, watching me with sad eyes, shoulders hung low, looking defeated.

I wave clumsily and when I’m outside, I lean on the door for support. I feel like crying.

Marc lets me in and listens to me ranting about how stupid I acted, but he never judges me. He only says, things like this happen sometimes and now I have to calm down, recharge, sleep and concentrate on the first match I have tomorrow.

We sit and watch TV and after a couple of hours spent away from you I already want to run back.

I stretch in the armchair and hear a crack in my left knee and feel the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. That says a lot. I scream.

In half an hour we are in the hospital and the organizers of the tournament are running around to arrange everything for me and a doctor comes and tells me the ultrasound doesn’t show any problems but we need to see what the MRI says.

I’m scared shitless while waiting for them to come and take me to the MRI. I’m half sitting, half lying on the hospital bed, alone and crying, when you are suddenly here, cradling me into your strong arms, soothing me, kissing into my hair and I feel all the burdens lifted off of me and cry for long minutes while you are patiently rocking me.

“Why you wear my t-shirt?” I ask when my tears are gone and finally notice my white Rafa shirt on you.

You smile. “It was the first thing I found when Maymó called. I was in a hurry. I also brought you some things,” you explain and point out the bag you left in a chair when you came in.

I understand you won’t ask me to come back and I’m very grateful. My thoughts are certainly still not in order about this whole unfortunate presser case, and right now I can’t deal with that. It’s the smaller problem, compared to I might not be able to play the Australian Open.

You stay with me, wait for the MRI being done, and until the specialist who they called right away reassures us there are no anomalies in my knee. I get some treatment to prevent any possible inflammation starting and soon we are back in the hotel, standing at Marc’s door, the others discreetly leaving us alone.

“Uhm…” you begin sheepishly, one hand in your pocket, the other scratching your head. “Go in and rest your leg! Leave everything else for later! Promise!”

I nod. “Rogi…” I start but you reach out and put a finger on my lips.

“Shh! Go! Rest! Don’t forget you said we meet in the semi-final!”

I kiss your finger and you smile one brilliant smile and walk away.

Before I fall asleep we exchange some texts.

**’U look good in my shirt, Rogi.’**

**’:-) Do I still smell of rose? R’**

**’I no say u smell rose! U smell Roger!!!!!’**

**’Your Nutella jar is in the bag with your stuff. I thought of bringing Ozee too but I didn’t know if you want to show him off to Marc. Such an intimate thing. ;-) R’**

**’U make fun of me. :( Sorry I need sleep & kick ass tomorrow & urs 2 in semi!!!! :-p’**

No answer comes to my last message for a long while and I think you fell asleep when my phone chimes again.

**’Cocky! *eyeroll* I sent you smt! Good night! R’**

And at this moment, before I could get confused about what you meant, Marc is knocking on my door and hands me Ozee, telling me you brought him over just a minute ago. I don’t even try to pretend I’m not deeply touched when I hug him to myself, and Marc is just laughing and leaves me alone, muttering something like _’You guys…’_  under his nose, while I’m already typing.

**’=D=D=D ¡Gracias y buenas noches, Rogelio!!!!!!!!!!! xxxxx’**


	19. Part 19

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 16th of JANUARY, 2012

Some things enjoy priority even if I have bigger issues in my life. This is why I have a wake-up call at 6 in the morning, to watch Real Madrid with Marc and the team and I can forget about everything else for one and a half hours. We are winning, that is a good start of my first matchday at the Slam.

I try to move my knee in different ways and there is no weird pain. Another good sign.

My mind begins to wander about you; are you up already? How are you feeling after the stressing events of yesterday? Will you call me? Should I call you?

I believe I should, kind of like the ball is on my side now – I’m supposed to take the next step. But I don’t. I chicken out right before I would initiate the phone call. Instead I send a text message.

**’Morning! Knee ok. Madrid win. I ready. xxxxx’**

I look around for some news and make sour faces at the headlines that are all over the place, presenting the story in the most scandalous way possible.

**NADAL CRITICIZES FEDERER**

**LATEST CLASH: RAFA vs ROGER; NO WAIT UNTIL SEMI-FINAL**

**NADAL: ROGER AS FRESH AS A DAISY**

**FEDERER LETS OTHERS BURN TO STAY GENTLEMAN, SAYS NADAL**

**HOTTEST FEUD AROUND: RAFA TRASHTALKS ROGER**

**STORM IN LOVE NEST?**

The last one makes me growl, hit my forehead repeatedly in the pillows and wish I could stay hidden in the room all day.

What have I done?

But then, though a couple of hours late, you answer my text with a smiling face and writing, **’Go for it! R’**.You probably had a long sleep, as your match is scheduled at 7 pm.

I sigh at the screen and feel the willpower return into my body and mind. Then I realize I still have all my tennis gear in our suite and I need to collect them. I dread the moment when I have to face you again, I don’t know why, but the sunshine of the new day has something to do with it. At least I pretend it does.

My fear was unnecessary, you are gone when I enter the room we shared until last night.

When I leave the hotel with Titín, Toni and the others, I catch a glimpse of you, casually sitting at a table and eating brunch with Mirka and your father. Your hair is damp, likely from the swimming.

I feel a pang of jealousy but I swallow it. I’m not going to think back to years ago when this was all what we had – you living with Mirka happily (or that was all I knew), and me having nothing but the late night fantasies and secretly touching myself, replaying occasions when you looked and smiled at me from the distance at practice courts or locker rooms.

I have more crucial tasks to do. First of them is winning my opening encounter against _Alex Kuznetsov_ , which I do, in three straight sets.

Then dealing with the press again, with the questions showering down on me, most of them only wanting to know how you reacted to what I said or if I apologized to you and how this case affected our relationship.

This almost makes my blood boil in my veins and I have to strongly control myself not to snap.

“I have fantastic relationship with Roger, I always had fantastic relationship with him,” I say and add that having different views on certain matters won’t change that and the members of the press shouldn’t create crazy stories about us after what I said. It’s what it is, it has nothing to do with our private life.

I tell them my mistake was that I vented to journalists instead of keeping it behind closed doors, and no matter how hard they try, this was the last time I addressed the issue and the next two weeks I’m going to talk about tennis and only tennis.

Disappointed murmuring sweeps through the media room and when the moderator says, “Next question, please!”, nobody has anything to ask anymore.

“Thought so,” I say. “You interested only in scandal, no tennis, sí?”

They laugh a bit, probably not ashamed the slightest, and the conference ends here. I’m relieved.

I know you must be around at the lockers by now but I don’t see you when I leave. I can’t stay, I have an arranged drive back to the hotel in an official car and I’m doing the _Open Drive Q & A_ during. They take my mind off the less flattering things by the silly questions, and I really laugh from the bottom of my heart when they want me to use my best Aussie accent and say something. Seriously?

I have to think of you and Andy Roddick calling each other _mate_ in the most outrageous Australian dialect all the time and giggling at it for a week every single year. So I say, “Hey mate!”, and feel accomplished. But the prize is that I can’t chase you out of my head anymore.

I’m having the post-match massage in Marc’s room when I receive your congratulation.

**’Well done! Now eat and rest and watch the maestro work! ;-) R’**

I wish you good luck and tell you I’m going to. And your texts still paint my days golden.

The whole posse gather and it feels like when we are watching fútbol. Friends, good food and sport.

My heart swells when I look over the guys and see that every one of them is cheering for you. Even Uncle Toni is animated, wrapped in a deep analyzing conversation about your movement with Papá, until Papá shushes him and says he just wants to enjoy seeing you. Toni looks a bit lost after that, glaring at me, clearly blaming me for changing the team into Federer fans so now he doesn’t have any company to talk about how I can beat you.

You win, also in three sets, playing a tighter first set, but nothing to worry about.

I go in my little spare room, away from the hubbub of my team’s chattering and I linger at the window, looking at the busy evening city through the glass.

I’m thinking of you. You playing, staying always so calm, focused. And wonderful. The red polo-shirt stretching at your broad shoulders and hugging your narrow waist tight. And the white shorts… I’m not even going there!

I’m aching to see you.

Too occupied with my own thoughts, I don’t even hear the clicks when the door opens and closes, I only feel arms sneaking around my hips from behind and a chest pressing into my back, your unmistakable odour hitting my nose and your hand cupping my bits through my shorts.

You blow my hair out of the way and kiss my neck and I lean back into you. I wonder how much time passed while I was being here alone that you are already back from the site. I also wonder when I got this painfully hard.

“Roger…” I moan and you shush me.

“Came to check on you,” you whisper in my ear and then playfully bite it. Your hand is in my pants now, slowly jacking me off and when it gets annoying that you don’t have free access, you push the shorts and briefs down and take my cock in your hand again.

“Roger…” I repeat and this time you say a sharp ’Shut up!’

Stroking me, you go on. “I came to see you, to tell you I miss you and love you and say fuck if I care what you said and what happened, and I don’t ask you to come back home, you can have all the time you want, I wait for you… but let me feel you, I can’t go on if I don’t feel you…”

You falter off when I come in your hand, still touching me while I’m riding out my orgasm, then leading me to the bed and let me collapse on it.

You search for tissues and clean the mess. Then you seem ready to leave, not asking for any returning of me.

“How was press?” My question stops you at the door.

Turning and smiling with a foxy glint in your eyes you say, “Read it!” And you whisper a good night and are gone.

I have difficulties to gather myself but I boot my laptop and find the transcript of your post-match presser.

 **ROGER FEDERER:** _Things are fine between us, you know. I have no hard feelings towards him. It's been a difficult last few months in terms of politics within the ATP, I guess, trying to find a new CEO and chairman. That can get frustrating sometimes. He's mentioned many times how he gets a bit tired and frustrated through the whole process, and I shared that with him. It's normal. But for me, obviously nothing changes in terms of our relationship. I'm completely cool and relaxed about it._

**Q: He said you've got one view and the others have got something else.**

**ROGER FEDERER:** _Yeah, I think that's normal. We can't always agree on everything. So far it's always been no problem really. Back in the day he used to say, whatever Roger decides, I'm fine with. Today he's much more grown up. He has a strong opinion himself, which I think is great. It's what we need, especially on the council. It's been nice working with him. That he has a strong opinion also creates sometimes good arguments about where you want to move the sport forward to. So we're always constantly trying to get on the same page, or at least talking about it, so we can do the best for the sport. That's at the end of the day both our goals._

**Q: Specifically are you willing to talk about the point that possibly you sometimes stand outside the process, maybe not getting behind some of the top 100 players, or does that come back to the differences in points of view, for example, pushing for changes to prize money, things like that?**

**ROGER FEDERER:** _I was in the meeting, you know. I completely understand and support the players' opinions. I just have a different way of going at it. I'm not discussing it with you guys in the press room. It creates unfortunately sometimes negative stories. I think we've done really well over the years now since me and Rafa in particular have joined the council._

My heart skips some beats while reading, still, after so many years, being completely overwhelmed by your finesse, class and problem solving abilities. Basically this is part of why I criticized you and now I’m in awe by it. I feel totally stupid again but at the same time thankful for how you handled the situation.

I lie down and relax, sighing and taking everything in. It happened so fast and now the whole issue seems to be over, left in past.

I’m reading and answering fans’ questions for the Aussie newspaper, _The Ace_ , when a small ding warns me that you are online and I have to laugh. I don’t have to click on chat, a message from you pops up right away.

          **Roger says:** How did I do?

         **Rafa says:** U save the day! :-)

         **Roger says:** Handjob was that good? ;-p

         **Rafa says:** That too! U a diplomat, no?

         **Roger says:** Stop kissing my ass and go to sleep!

         **Rafa says:** Rogi…

         **Roger says:** ?

         **Rafa says:** Next time kiss me?

         **Roger says:** Count on it!! Nacht!  <3

         **Roger is now offline.**

I stare at the last line and then at the sign of a heart you sent. It’s silly how uncharacteristical it is, coming from you, and still so in place somehow, proper and genuine. Right.

Everything seems more colourful and the Nutella tastes sweeter when later I sit at the kitchen counter and eat some with my fingers out of the jar.

I can’t wait till the next time we meet!

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 17th of JANUARY, 2012

I keep running into you all day.

First in the early morning. I’m riding the elevator with Marc and Titín down, to hit one of the cafés and grab some breakfast. When it dings and the door opens, you stand there, face lighting up when you see us, a grin seemingly wanting to curl your lips up but a smart good morning wish holding it back.

“Hola,” I mutter and get completely thrown off by your casual and somewhat distant smile.

Titín and Marc go ahead – Marc murmuring ’Dios mío!’ –, leaving me behind, alone with you. I’m just swifting here from one foot to the other while you are holding the elevator door open with an arm, the other carrying a bag, probably containing your swimming gear.

“Did you wanna say something?” you ask.

I shake my head. All I can think of is your promise for a kiss.

You must have got a flashback, too, because the next moment you step closer, elevator forgotten, and with your now free hand reach under my jaw and lift my face to look at you. You give me a sweet grin, leaning in, and my eyelids are getting heavy and close automatically, waiting blindly.

That happens next is not what I expected.

Noises bother us and a family, parents and two children, walk to the lifts, obviously coming from breakfast and wanting to retreat to their hotel room.

We fly apart, you still smiling at me warmly then winking when the little boy whispers, “Daddy! Rafa Nadal”, too loud not to be heard.

I look at them and the father asks for a sign, while the mother is frozen in place, staring at you. I have to giggle and she gives me a look, then suddenly blushes hard. Yes, I always know the second when they recognize the situation and are reminded that we are living together.

At first I believe she will just duck her head or keep watching you but she straightens her posture and asks for a picture taken of you and me together. These requests have increased a huge amount lately!

Her husband tries a weak ’Marta, please!’, but the woman is determined and you chime in, too, saying it’s absolutely fine, putting her in ease.

And then while she is searching for her camera, you come stand beside me, putting your hand on the small of my back like always, not looking at me but rubbing your thumb there in circles.

For a faint moment I can’t breathe, you send such a rush of arousal to me through that tiny gesture. It travels from the place you are touching me up to my neck and makes the fine hair stand up there.

I find smiling difficult but I manage and when the photo is taken, your hand slides to mine, takes it shortly and you say you have to go, your hair is still wet and needs drying, and you will see me later.

The next moment you are letting the family go in an elevator and follow them.

I just stand there again, watching the door close, waking up from it as it had been a dream only when the signs show you are already on the 15th floor.

I shake my head and dart toward the restaurant…

It’s a very hot day, the temperature is reaching 30˚C already at 11 am.

I don’t feel any urge to go out on the court and train so I hide a bit in the locker room.

Nole is here, he will play today and he likes to chill at the site and fool around with the others. Of course he finds me right away.

“Hey, Rafa!” he says and we shake hands. “What’s up?”

“No much,” I shrug and begin to sort my practice gear and racquets.

I can see Novak shifting on his heels and I throw a lopsided look at him, asking, “What?”

I could swear I see him flush. “Oh, uhm… Don’t think I’m indiscreet but…”

This doesn’t sound any good.

“But is that true you moved in with Marc López?” he goes on.

I freeze. “Huh?”

“You know… I heard… And if… maybe… you know… if you are free…”

“What?”

“Can I ask you…?”

“Ask me?”

“…out.”

The dime drops for me finally. I need some willpower not to laugh. I don’t want to be impolite or rude but Novak is again too funny for his own good.

“Ah, uhm, sure,” I say. “We can have drinks or what you want. You ask Roger too, no?”

“Roger?”

I nod. “Federer. Remember, no? My partner. Lover. My man.” I can’t hold my chuckle back anymore, Nole makes such displeased faces.

“I thought…” he says, scratching his neck, obviously confused. “Everybody knows…”

“Everybody?” It startles me.

Nole nods. “Your Armada guys are the most gossipy shit around, come on, you sure knew that!” And he laughs now, uncomfort forgotten. “Tipsy told me. He heard from Richie Gasquet who heard from Gaël who apparently heard Nando Verdasco and Feliciano discussing it.”

“Uh!” It’s all I can say. I drop down on the bench heavily. “¡Mierda!”

Nole keeps chuckling. “I’m sorry, Rafa! You know me, I just thought I try, you see. I gotta keep trying whenever Roger is out of the picture…”

“Am I now?” asks your deep voice behind Novak.

He spins around and steps aside a bit, not blocking my sight anymore, so I can finally see you leaning on the lockers nonchalantly, arms crossed, your expression highly amused. You developped this habit of showing up at the worst times. Or best?

“Hi, Roger!” says Novak. “I uhm… just have to be… at… at… go to… you know… find Ana Ivanovic, that’s it, yes! Promised her something and then… yeah… I have a match to play,” he stutters and waving to me shyly, he disappears in a blink.

“That was very, very interesting!” you say, your lips curling up on one side. “So I guess they all know.”

“Sí,” I sigh. “I no wanted it be such a bother!”

You come and sit down beside me. “It’s no bother, Raf. Are you all right though?”

I don’t even know the answer to that question. “I worry. About press.”

You shake your head. “You shouldn’t be! Rule No. 1: what happens in the locker room stays in the locker room. Nobody will utter a word about this to the press. Remember, most of them knew about us very early on and no word got out! So you can unfreeze now!” you say reassuringly and gesture toward my face that must be in a frown.

I relax. Thoughts of that promised kiss come back to my mind and I watch your lips when you talk again.

“Actually, do you think we could convince Toni to let us train together today?”

It takes only this much for me to get all my energy back, surging through my veins and muscles.

“Sí, sí! ¡Por favor!”

We get ready and under Toni and Paul’s watchful guidance we are having a demanding two hours of practice during which you don’t even try to joke around. At least not until the very end when we play footie tennis as the final section of the training.

I’m a blasting ball of nerves when we are walking back to the lockers, you before me, hips swaying in that unmistakable way that belongs to you and only you.

I think of showering together, or just in neighbouring stalls. I know the locker room is busy and there is no chance to do anything but I also know when we are both in there, the others usually leave us alone because they do think we might do something! I giggle just to myself.

“What’s funny?” you turn back to me, right before we reach the door. Then you open it and hold it for me, letting me walk in first.

It feels really nice and I’m blushing and know you notice it. “I no girl, Roger!” I say, ducking my head and being entirely happy that I didn’t have to answer what I giggled at.

“Right. But you are my lover. My partner. I can use such a gesture. Especially because I am a gentleman, you said so! Publicly!” you snicker.

I groan. “So we start to joke about it now?” I mutter and drop my gear on the floor.

“Rafa, you are taking it too seriously. I mean, yeah, it sucked but it’s over,” you reason. “You have all the time to cool down but shouldn’t overdo it!”

“I no overdo it. I can no help it! I feel bitter and silly everytime I see you. No moving on until it go away, no?” I explain and you look back at me with an equally sorrowful face for a minute.

Then it changes into a wonderful grin, dimples appearing, corners of the eyes crinkling. “Bitter when you see me? Is that all you feel?”

I have no words to react so suddenly and I throw my wristband I was holding at you. You catch it and clutch it to your heart, then lift it to your nose to sniff.

“Can I keep it? And can you please also sign it for me, Señor Nadal? The name is Roger, I am your biggest fan!” you ask, mock starry eyes in place. The perfect image of a delighted fan with his precious relic.

I have to smile and want to ask if we can shower together, not caring about the semi-public display at all, but then you look at your watch.

“Oh shit, I gotta run! Diana and the kids are coming to visit and I will be late from the airport. Promised them to be there. I gotta take a quick shower in the hotel when I change,” you tell me and look utterly apologetic, throwing your stuff in your bags haphazardly meanwhile.

I look down, head hung. Normally we would do this joint.

You lift your bags to put on your shoulders and step to me. “Hey! See you soon?”

I look up and nod and you lean close, reach for my nape to bring our foreheads together. “Go enjoy this hot day, Schatz!” you whisper and rub your nosetip on mine. Then you release me and walk away.

“Roger!” I shout after you but you just say, “Later, Rafa!” and you are gone.

I stay here alone, pouting in vain, as no one can see.

There was no kiss again! Depressing.

It’s really unhumanly hot today, 36˚C, so we are hanging out with Marc in the nicely air-conditioned hotel room, watching Spanish shows, one after the other. It’s fun, really, but I’m aching for doing it with you in this free afternoon.

Marc is patting my head and says it will be all right. Sometimes I think he has a bit of cool Swiss attitude, always waiting, observing and not running into the wall unnecessarily. Partly this is that causes my arguments with you, too. This difference in character, attitude and culture. And blood. I would just jump and want to do everything at once. Suddenly, urgently, right now. With your laid-back temper clashes are inevitable.

I fidget, much to Marc’s annoyance, and I’m sure he will mention it in a few seconds if I don’t quit. When my phone rings and the ID shows it’s you calling, he sighs gladly. I walk a bit further away and answer it.

“Hola!”

I can hear your grin. “Hi, Raf! Listen… err… where are you now?”

“In room.”

“Cool, what are you doing?”

“Eh… hanging with Marc. No important.”

You let out a relieved sigh. “Great! Can I ask for something? Could you help me out?”

You sound a bit desperate, maybe even embarrassed, and I hear some sharp screaming from the background.

“What is wrong, Rogi?”

“Oh uhm… nothing… just… can you come over? Bitte schön!”

The German convinces me there is an emergency.

“Un momento!” I say and hung up, already leaving the room, telling Marc I will be back later on my way.

When you open the door and I step inside, I see the whole living room area of our suite is a war zone. Toys scattered everywhere, a small playing tent is set up in the middle and a little guy is biking around on his little tricycle, while his sister is sitting on a rug, looking grumpy, giving a threatening wail as if to warn about bursting out in crying soon.

You run and pick Emilie up and she smears her sticky hands on your t-shirt, dirtying it with substance that must have been a banana once.

“Babysitting, Roger?” I laugh.

You just stand there, holding little Emilie in one arm and shrugging with your free shoulder. You look unbelievably perfect. And more clueless than ever.

“Give me!” I say and you hand your niece over. “Go catch Roman!”

We settle down after making the scene a bit less messy and I’m reading loud for the twins from a Spanish sailing magazine. The sailboats and wide oceans apparently have them calming down – both are listening with huge saucer eyes, Emilie chewing on her thumb.

You come and give her a pacifier and she looks up at you, giggling a bit before you put it in her mouth.

Roman is falling asleep and his sister is getting more intersted in the pictures than hearing my voice, so I give the magazine to her and put her down beside her brother.

“You should no do this alone, Rogi!” I tell you. “You never did.”

You sigh and stretch on the couch. “I know. But Diana needed to sleep after the flight and the nanny looked beaten up, too. So I thought I land them a helping hand and let them have some rest. She said the twins were sleeping through the whole trip, I should have known they were going to be hyperactive.”

I giggle. “She no warn you enough!”

“Yeah. I guess she finds it amusing, sure wanna hear stories of my struggling later! Now I know. She will kill me anyway. Roman was bumping into every furniture with his bike, man!”

“I protect you, no?” I smile and some really peaceful fog falls down on me. Watching the drowsy children, both looking like you, I think the future without tennis is not that scary. I could do this for the rest of my life.

“Thanks for coming!” you say. “My superhero.”

Your smile is sheepish and it makes you look so young.

I slide off my part of the couch and climb on yours. You don’t say anything, don’t ask anything, just watch me and then you move, your body gives space to mine and we lie down, me in your arms, pressed together tight.

I lay my head on your chest and let you comb through my hair with one hand and smooth my bare arm up and down rhythmically with the other.

We watch the kids – they fell asleep, lying almost as close to each other, Roman clutching Emilie’s tiny finger in his identically small hand.

The next thing I know I feel your hot breath on my ear and faintly hear you call my name. I stir, I can tell I’m still lying on you. I open my eyes and the twins are gone. I sit up and you hiss when you also try to move.

“Your dead weight is not exactly good on my back, Raf,” you mutter.

I want to say something but we hear Diana’s voice from the kitchen corner. “Hi, guys!”

I look over and wave back. You just groan, still trying to sit.

“Nice to see you, Rafa,” Diana says, coming closer. “Thanks for babysitting my little devils!” And she bends to kiss me on the cheek.

“Is nothing,” I reply. “Call me anytime!”

“Don’t I get some reward, too?” you ask her and she says you can have a banana-pineapple shake that you like so much, since she’s making it for the twins. That has you settled.

It’s getting late and suddenly I just feel the urge to go. Now that I’m not occupied enough with the children, I begin to feel how much I miss our suite that functions as our home for these weeks. And I can look at you too much without any distraction. This has my stomach in a knot. I need to leave.

You walk me to the door, holding my hand.

“You could stay,” you offer, so tentatively it makes my heart ache. “Not come back, just stay the night.”

I shake my head.

“As you wish,” you nod and the slight glint of sadness disappears from your eyes.

“See you tomorrow then!” you say and open the door for me.

“Sí.” I walk out, going further away from you but still holding your hand.

“Wait!” You get a tighter grip on it suddenly and pull me back. “I promised!”

And you are kissing me, your lips moving on mine, tongue asking for entrance. When it slides in, I moan, my whole body awaken and on fire. I suck on your tongue and you pull me closer, then we clumsily fall back to the wall beside the door. Your backside hits it first and I slam into you.

I can’t help but push my hardening cock into yours and that must send an alarm to both of us because we pull away at the same time.

“Kids,” I murmur.

“I know…” you say softly. But then you start kissing my face and jaw and down on my neck and mumble ’Rafa’ with every breath.

I can hardly escape, your hands are everywhere and arms trying to pull me back whenever I make a distancing move.

Finally I manage and I’m outside on the corridor, staring back at you. We say mute bye and the fire I see in your eyes burns itself in my mind so much I stumble back to Marc’s room and I am barely able to find the lock with my keycard.

Once inside safe, I slide down to the floor and sit there to cool down when my phone is buzzing in my pocket.

**’Fuck, Raf, what are you doing to me?? R’**

I smile. I get it is a poetic question and doesn’t need answering. I still text you back.

**’Deuce!!!!!!!!!!! ;)’**

From this you will know I feel equally disturbed.

I sit on the cold floor for a while, waiting for my rapidly beating heart to slow down and throbbing erection to wilt.


	20. Part 20

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 18th of JANUARY, 2012

My early afternoon match against Tommy Haas turns out tough but I win it.

I like Tommy much; he is one of your best friends on Tour so I know him better, too. He is from the older generation of tennis, the oldest player in this tournament.

When he walks off the court after the match, I clap along with the crowd and my stomach twists. You can never know when you play your last match against such a player and I don’t like to see them slowly fade.

I express my feelings in my on-court interview, hoping we can see Tommy play for many years because this match also proved he still has it in him.

Back in the locker room the first thing I do is checking my phone, even before I can take a look at the scoreboard to see how far you got into your match that has to be already on, on _Hisense_ arena. This is the first time in years that you were scheduled on the second biggest court, not on Rod Laver, because we are at the same half of the draw!

But from your text messages I get to know it’s not happening.

**’Hey, guess what? Andi Beck withdrew, I got walkover, seems fate doesn’t want me on Hisense! ;-) I’m watching you! Good match! R’**

**’What was that insane forehand winner? I’m not sure I wanna face that, Rafa! R’**

**’Jesus, Tommy giving you a run for your money!! ;-) R’**

**’Comms already building it up to semifinal! You have to win this one first! :-p R’**

**’Well done! How about more babysitting? Maybe take them to a park or something? Call me! R’**

I giggle and feel really light. This is maybe the first time I don’t sense guilt deep inside when I think of you, so I’m happy about getting there and slowly forgiving myself.

 **’No time 4 call. Shower, press. I late!!!!! :) Pick me up in 1 hour @ players lounge?’** I text you back and run to take a shower.

When I’m ready, your answer is awaiting me. **’I’ll be there. R’**

At the press conference the first thing they ask is why I am this late again. I tell them Roger Federer distracted me. They laugh. Some of them probably also have naughty thoughts!

If I have already brought your name up, they tell me you had a walkover and ask what I think of that, if I liked to have one, too. What a silly question! I say maybe in the beginning of the day, yes, but now that I played and won, no thanks. And they laugh again.

I’m much more entertaining when I know I will see you soon!

In the lounge I’m shoveling pasta mixed with rice and vegetables into my mouth when you stop beside me, out of my eyesight.

“You are the only one in the world eating that,” you say.

I’m coughing, startled, and you pour me a glass of water, then go to the bar and order steak (well done) with roasted potatoes, sparing some time for the waiters, and come back with two bottles of beer, placing one in front of me.

“I no wanna drink, Rog,” I object.

“Then I’m gonna drink both, getting tipsy, and you have to look after the twins on your own,” you say with a shrug, smiling slyly. “Relax, Rafa! You have a day off tomorrow, nothing to worry about.”

I think of it, then nod. You are right. So I drink the beer and it goes so well with my food, tastes sweeter than what I am used to.

“Wheat beer,” you explain. “Less strong, too.”

You always think of everything without even having to make any effort. I smile back at you, beholden. And pretty charmed.

You grin and when the waiter brings your order, dig in.

“Not bad we have the same days off,” you add. “It’s something new but likeable.”

I giggle. “You got fond of #3 place?”

You look at me wide-eyed. “If this is what I have now, I operate with this. But I’m after your #2, and then #1 again.”

“I will watch you try,” I retort with a smug grin.

“Cheeky,” you say and your eyes get a bit darker. Your thoughts are seemingly wandering off to another direction and I have the feeling you want to continue but the waiter comes back, carrying a plate with dessert and putting it in front of me.

“Coconut-lime cheesecake with mango coulis for Mr Nadal,” he says, letting a pleased smile show on his face.

“I no asked…” I try to inform him but you cut me off.

“I did!”

I sigh, thanking the waiter, and when he is gone, measuring the piece of cake. “You want me drunk and fat, Roger!” I huff.

You chuckle and swallow the last gulps of beer to your finished steak. “Yes. My master plan to win the Slam!” you snicker, but continue it more serious. “No. I just feed you. And don’t bother, I also had them charge it on my card!”

I get it suddenly. “You try to seduce me!”

“Maybe? Is it working?” you ask, your eyes shining.

I look at the cake again. “I not know. Have to test your taste!” And with that I cut some of the dessert off and try it.

You lean forward over the table, on your elbows, resting your head in your hands and watch me intently, understanding that you are being called out on how good a cake you chose for me.

I moan when the flavours spread on my tongue; I even close my eyes shortly.

You snicker. “I think I just won the challenge. Ball was in. The call stands,” you announce in your best chair umpire voice.

I snort and say you have only two challenges remaining now, then go back to my delicious cake. It’s perfect. Sweet and sour, light and heavy. Balanced. If you wanted to emphasize our differences that somehow complement one another, you had your point proven.

Your gaze on me makes me dizzy, adding to the blood sugar level majorly increased. I’m smiling like a fool, chewing my cake, then offering you some on my fork.

“Want?”

You catch my hand and pull it aside, and you lean in and kiss me, licking some smeared coconut whipped cream off.

I freeze in my chair, from the distance I hear some waitress softly giggling and I open my eyes. I didn’t know I closed them.

“It’s good,” you say, sitting back, smiling.

I realize I’m doomed. I have already been, but will be even more if I can watch you fuss around the twins all afternoon. There is nothing more sexy than that!

It happens very soon, after we pick them up at Diana’s hotel room, along with all the necessities, baby bags full of diapers, drinks for them, spare clothes in case they need to change, wipers, powder, bandaids (you need to think of everything), favourite toys they can’t be without and so on. And of course their pram.

It’s endearing to witness your struggling with Emilie, who doesn’t want you to strap her in the stroller at all. I have already secured Roman in his seat, so you gently scold his sister, asking her to be a good girl and follow his example. Emilie just fights harder and keeps hanging in your neck, clearly communicating she wants to be lifted and carried.

“All right then, little one!” you give in and we walk to the park nearby, I’m pushing Roman in the stroller, you carrying Emilie in your arms.

There is a playground, secured for the youngest ones, too, at the corner of the park, so after settling down under a bigger tree, I take Roman to climb and you strap Emilie into a baby swing and push her until she is shrieking with delight, so much that Roman gets jealous and we also have to go swinging soon.

They never want to stop.

“This make my arm burn,” I complain.

“Oh, look who’s talking!” you cast a sympathetic look at me and then burst out of laughter.

“¿Qué?” I ask, not getting the joke.

“Oh nothing! Just… you certainly don’t have the muscle mass for such a hard exercise! I understand your discomfort, Rafa!” And with that you reach out and pat my head lightly.

I scowl at you. You giggle on. And the day goes on like this. Soon the kids are too tired to run around more so they both nap in their pram, in the cool shadows.

We lie down as well, on a plaid – I could fall asleep here, watching the leaves move in the light breeze. You lean on your elbows, just smiling contentedly and looking at the sleeping children.

I like it very much, being on our own with the twins. If we ignore the two bodyguards watching from the distance. But even that makes me grin. I recall when you once said we wouldn’t need them anyway because everybody would be scared off by my built. I said everybody but the ladies!

Diana finds us later in the same pose. She is coming from a shopping tour, looking happy with her purchases, and takes the babies home.

“What now?” you ask and at the same time my stomach rumbles loud.

“You buy me food!” I say. “I want Twister!”

There is a KFC at the other end of the street and it’s quite a scene when we walk in, holding hands. Costumers stiffen a bit and stare but soon most of them just smile and go back to having their snacks.

“Two Twisters, one mayo, one sweet chili and no tomato, please! And a Roller, but no cheese sauce only salsa and no ham,” I order and I know you let me do it for the fun, to be able to giggle discreetly beside me. “Yes… and a large chips and uhm… Iced Mocha and a Strawberry Smoothie…”

“… and a Cool Ridge, too, please! And we take it away, thank you!” you add and the order is complete with your water.

“I wanted Golden Gaytime for you, Rogi, but…”

You smack my arm and look around for eavesdroppers. “You stop there or I tip your smoothie over your lap, I swear!”

I snort but can’t strike back because our take-away is ready and you pay and we leave the place before somebody really overhears something inappropriate.

We walk back to the park and find a bench where we can eat our food and I just drink half of my strawberry smoothie in one go and you are laughing at me, demonstrating that one can have a KFC  Twister in a well-mannered way, not even the pepper mayo dripping.

You have only a little drop at the corner of your lips and I really wanna lick it off, despite of not liking mayo at all. But this is the moment when Alexia Wawrinka  is running toward us, screaming _’Oooooogiiiiiiii!’_ on her way and finally throwing herself in your arms.

You laugh and lift her, holding her in one arm while stuffing the last of the Twister in your mouth and try to chew and say ‘hi’ to the little girl at the same time. There goes the genteel eating!

Alexia is chirping something, possibly in French; we try to understand her, she is only about two years old and doesn’t speak properly yet, so we recognize only a few words. Well more like _you_ recognize them, as it’s French. I understand a bit of French but certainly not the kid version of it.

But she can’t be misunderstood still, because she reaches for the Roller I have in the plastic box, with greedy hands, stretching her whole little body, almost falling.

“Hey, Lexi!” you warn her not to fidget anymore. “Where is Daddy?”

“Here I am!” comes the shouting from behind us. Daddy, as in Stan Wawrinka, is arriving from the opposite direction, running, seemingly exhausted.

“Did you run off, Lexi?” you ask her and she is giggling like mad, while Stan is trying to breathe through his ears.

“Yeah, just don’t give her fast food, please, guys! Hi anyway!” he says finally. “Sorry, we go!” And he tries to get Alexia out of your arms.

“I can give her a cookie?” I ask and she, already in daddy’s neck, naturally recognizing the word ’cookie’ that instant, gets the puppy eyes.

Stan nods so I get a cookie out of my pocket where I kept the bag of them for the twins. Alexia takes it and she bends, giving me a soft kiss on my cheek. A very soft but wet kiss.

Stan makes her say thanks, too, and they are gone, the kid is waving for long on the way, munching on the cookie.

“Now you will be her favourite!” you tell me.

I’m thinking and I draw the conclusion again. “I really want kids, Roger.”

You seem startled a bit but the telling expression is gone from your face soon. You are watching Stan and his daughter walking away, now at the other side of the street. Your lips curl into a gentle smile. You look kind of lost for a moment, probably inside your mind. Then you turn to me.

“I know!”

Now I feel startled because your voice is so earnest, so final. So as I can’t utter a word at this, we leave it for now and finish our meals, then walk back to the hotel.

It’s very nice to hold your hand again and walk everywhere like that. I don’t want to part just yet.

“Do you wanna have some more drinks?” you ask. You must have been thinking of the same.

I suddenly feel shy but I smile. “Middle of a Slam, Roger, and you want me drunk?”

You huff. “It’s not the middle and I didn’t say drunk! Come on, let’s just go and have something! You can get one of those hideous mocktails if you so want!” you say and pull me toward the bar.

“You take me to a date?” I ask, teasing you.

“That was Novak if I remember right!”

“Uh… no remind me, por favor!”

We are having some beers in the next two or three hours, I don’t even know how long we are here because I lose count and you are such a smooth talker, despite of getting the gigglefits sometimes.

“Estar piripi,” I say and I talk really slurred.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Oh… I… uh… tipsy!” I’m proud I can remember.

You giggle again. “No, you are not! You are Rafa!”

I stare back at you stupidly first, not getting the joke about our pal, Janko Tipsarevic, whose nickname is Tipsy. Then when I get it at long last, I start to laugh hysterically. And very, very loud.

You are getting into slight panic because pretty much everyone at the bar is looking at us and surely the small whispering begins.

“Okay, Raf, I wasn’t even that much funny,” you say, though you are chuckling, too. “Come on, let’s leave before it gets worse!”

You are gulping what you have left of your beer down fast and I follow your example. You say good night to the bartender guy – it got quite late meanwhile –, and I wave only, not being capable of anything more.

Finally I’m dragged out to the hall, but we are not going to the elevators.

‘¿Qué?’ is all I can ask and hope you undertsand me. And of course you do.

“We are going to swim!” you state with ease.

My eyes get huge, staring at you. “¿Qué?”

You laugh and pull me on. “Stop asking! Trust me!”

My fogged brain thinks the pool is not even open anymore, it must be that late because nobody is around. I am right, the main door is locked when you try it. But instead of giving it up and going back to the lifts, you walk on, taking me on a detour, to find another door, a smaller one, at the other side of the Spa area. And it opens when you pull the handle.

We are inside and the lock clicks. The space looks even bigger than I remember.

It’s not totally dark – there are some small lights inside the pools, probably out of caution in case someone comes in at night. Accidentally. Like, getting lost. Not like us. Dios mío, we are going to get caught!

The silence is too much, a bit scary, so I speak my mind.

“Should no be here, Rog!”

My voice goes all around the room, hitting the walls and coming off them in waves, much like water behaves when you are swimming in it.

“Shh!” you say. “Echo.” And you grab my hand, leading me closer to the pool. “Strip!” you command me.

“¿Qué?”

My eyes are just getting used to the dim lights so I can finally see your smiley face clearly.

“Don’t be difficult, Raf! Get naked or… okay, come here!” And your hands reach for my clothes to find the hems, buttons, and pull. “You help me?”

I’m pretty mesmerized and probably also still buzzed. It’s not that easy to undo all your buttons and I get frustrated quickly.

“This shirt…” I complain and you giggle and it is you who is helping _me_ in the end to get rid of the clothes.

They are dropped; it’s a messy pile beside one of the pillars that frame the biggest pool all around.

I can’t think anymore, since we are naked, except of our underwear. I let you drag me to one of the stairs and we walk into the water. It’s lukewarm. I forgot it was heated, it comes as a very nice surprise.

I am able to see you even better – the little blueish lights make you look illuminated.

You float further from me and I get kind of panicky. You must see it in my eyes because you come back and take my hand again, pulling my body to yours.

“Relax!” you whisper and your lips ghost over my ear.

Sudden recognization hits me; you are so close, our skin touching everywhere. You pull us to a corner and I’m not tipsy enough not to acknowledge your cock pushing into mine, both getting hard rapidly.

“No here…” I say but you catch my lips with yours.

“Yes… here!” you murmur between kisses and a moment later your hand is reaching down between us, pushing fabric aside and lining up our erections, pulling.

I lose control. Not that I wished to keep it!

I have no idea how we get out of the pool, on one of the sides of it, but we are here and I am lying on cold tiles, you above me, still jerking us off, bending so close and sucking on my lips frantically.

“I miss you, Rafa… so much,” you mutter into my mouth and it takes me over the edge even before I hear your long moan and feel you stiffen, spilling hot come all over me.

We lie here, stilled, breath ragged, bodies cooling down. I turn my head, looking at you. You are watching me.

For a second I believe you are going to ask me to come back to you. But no such request comes. You are a man of your words.

Instead, silently, you peel our wet briefs off and wipe all evidence of love making off with them, then get our clothes to dress. We put them on our still damp bodies. I wear loose capri pants, they are easy to pull on but your jeans don’t want to cooperate and slide up on your legs. We are having the laugh of the week, likely. It’s the funniest thing ever when you zip it so carefully – not having the boxers on under the pants –, trying to protect your sensitive bits and not to get the hair stuck.

“This was harder than winning a final!” you snicker.

I don’t know why, but this little scene makes me feel so content and blessed. I pull your head in for a kiss.

A bit later, standing at Marc’s door, we repeat the kiss and you thank me for the day and I mumble something similar. When you say good night, it takes all my willpower not to go with you, back to our own suite.

But I do not.

It’s not the time.

Not yet.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 19th of JANUARY, 2012

I sleep in and Marc can hardly wake me for the Real vs. Barcelona match. It’s for Spanish Cup, so the tie has a second leg which is encouraging, as we at least don’t lose in the first. But I can’t really concentrate. I state it again: alcohol + you + sex = too much and too deep sleeping!

I’m reading the transcript of your presser while having a proper breakfast, and have a good laugh at it. You guys were talking about bugs on the court. That happens when you have a walkover to the next round. One of the most awkward press conferences ever, for sure.

My mind wanders off to yesterday. It was so much fun. Going from being asked on a date by Novak Djokovic to going on one with you… Well, you avoided the answer when I asked if it was a date! Was it, actually?

I try to suppress my giggles while typing a text to you.

**’Rogi, I still think we dated yesterday, no? :)’**

Your reply is quick and short. **’No. R’**

Cut to the point but I don’t feel negativity coming from it, so I just giggle on. Whatever you say, Roger!

At practice I lose determination toward the end of my time. I see and hear the mass gathering at the neighbouring court because your training is scheduled following mine. Toni says I’m useless and I can go do whatever I want. So I walk to one end of the fence and start to sign for people.

I perfectly know I should leave the court before the next player arrives, based on the unwritten rules of tennis. But I’m lingering, not wanting to go without seeing you at least for a minute.

When you walk in, I can see you stop for a short second, surprised that I and all the fans are still here. Then you smile and come straight to me.

“You must make such a buzz, huh?” you say, shaking your head lightly, amused.

I blush and perfectly know whatever I say will be documented and whatever I do will be captured in photographs and analyzed on forums.

I settle down with the most low-key ’Hola, Rogelio!’ It proves to be the most intelligent phrase I can use these last days.

You seem like wanting to say something but then a security man steps to us and asks me to leave. Very politely but firmly.

“It’s all right!” you tell him. “We can wait, no problem.”

You know it’s not all right, because the poor guys are having a hard job to coordinate the fan groups, especially now that the two of them are collided at one end of the fence, where the courts meet.

The guard has slight panic in his eyes but you say, “It’s gonna be okay!” and he accepts it.

“Go on, Raf!” you turn to me again, hooking your arm around my shoulder and pull me close to you for a quick hug. “There are many of them. Many signs to give.”

The closest fans are awing at this and the ones who can’t see or hear well, ask about what’s happening. There is much noise but I zoom in on you. I wish we could just sit and talk!

“Go!” you repeat and walk away to the next court, dropping your stuff on the ground and sit in a chair courtside. Still watching me, smiling.

I give plenty of autographs just to be able to stall and stay as long as the line of fans lasts.

Stealing glances at you, seeing you following me with your eyes is intoxicating and when some guys ask me things, I answer in a haze and I don’t know what I am saying and I will probably regret it later.

I’m almost at the farthest end of the row when one of my phones buzzes in my pocket. I step away from the crowd to see it.

**’Enough Raf, I really gotta practise so plz let your horde of noisy ppl leave! :-) R’**

I look up at you again but you are turned now, jumping on court, ready to begin. I wish I could stay and just watch you. But then all my fans would stay, too, and that is not safe. I give a couple more signs and take a last look. You are facing me now, hands on hips, grinning, then when our eyes meet, making shooing moves.

I wave and leave.

After showering I sit on the bench at my locker. It’s close to yours, there is only one other between us and it is not used. I guess the guys are leaving it deliberately empty, allowing us to dress beside each other. I can see some of your stuff left scattered around, very unusually of you. One of them is the Nike t-shirt I like and I lift and sniff it. It smells like you. Clean but already worn, you sure had just taken it off. By a sudden drive I take it with me, giggling on my way out of the locker room.

I go up to the players’ lounge for a late lunch and I avoid Toni. I don’t want him lecture me for acting foolish at the end of my practice, so I sit across Feli Lopez and eat with him.

“How is it going, Cachorro?” he asks, calling me puppy, like always. I still don’t know why, he never enlightened me about it. When I ask, he only shrugs.

Now I shrug, as well. I have not much to tell.

He examines my face carefully. “You seem cheerier but still not completely okay,” he states.

The fork stops in my hand. I stare at him, a bit irritated. “Why do you ask if you know everything?”

“I wanna hear it from you. You used to tell me stuff,” he says. There is no reproach in his voice. It’s just a simple statement. When I don’t reply, he goes on. “Remember after your first Wimby win? You called me in the middle of the madness around you and said you were the happiest man in the world. I congratulated you for the title and you were like ’Huh? It’s not that, Feli! He wants me, really wants me, I’m sure now!’”

Reliving those moments must make my expression soften or something like that because when I look back at Feli again, his face shows such tenderness.

“I miss him, that’s all,” I admit.

Feli nods, pleased. “Why don’t you stop moping around and go back home then?”

“I fucked up, Lopez!”

He sits back and looks at me strictly. “So what? Did he say you fucked up and he didn’t wanna be with you?”

I shake my head. “But it’s not that easy! I kind of have to feel worse before I feel okay again,” I mumble, not knowing if my theory makes any sense.

Feli laughs. “You were born to suffer, Cachorro! All right, I stop interfering. But know if you need someone, I’m here for you!”

He stands to leave but I catch his arm, stand too, and hug him tight. “¡Gracias, Feli!”

“Sí, sí, now stop, you are making a scene!” he laughs, pats me on the shoulder and walks away.

Late at night I toss and turn in the bed, thinking it’s not even _my_ bed. Maybe that’s exactly my problem.

I flick the remote of the television but nothing catches my interest. Then, mostly as an inevitable move out of desperation, I switch my laptop on. Answering the questions for the magazine always puts me into sleep because I work my brain too hard to come up with some readable English.

But I’m distracted right away. I’m surprised to see you are available to chat and I debate if I should bother you. I know you wouldn’t be online without purpose, so you must be already chatting someone, probably from home. I dismiss the idea of talking to you and almost sign out of the program when your message pops up.

         **Roger says:** Don’t you wanna say hi to me, Rafi?

It makes me also bothered (maybe the name) and happy, so much that I stare at the blinking cursor in my screen and forget to reply.

 **Roger says:** You still there? Come on, could you save me? Talking to Mum for half an hour now, you gotta see what she sent me again!! Are you okay, Raf?

Your next message wakes me up and I start to type finally.

 **Rafa says:** Sí! Hi, Rog!

         **Roger says:** Hello! :-) Forwarded the attachment of her mail, check it out!

I do, it’s an article about some surrogate mother who talks of her weirdest experience when a gay couple wanted to mix their sperm and not knowing whose child she would be carrying, only at birth. Actually it doesn’t sound that weird to me. Okay, taking in count that your Mamá reads this stuff, it _is_   weird!

I giggle. What could I say to this?

         **Rafa says:** :-) Eh… say hi 2 Lynette 4 me?

         **Roger says:** I just did. Hey, I didn’t make you uncomfy, did I?

         **Rafa says:** No… just… NO!

         **Roger says:** You sure all right?

         **Rafa says:** I am. No worry!

         **Roger says:** Lemme say bye to Mum, then we can video chat!

         **Rafa says:** No no, por favor! Writing is good!!!!

There is a short silence on your end and then my phone rings. I just stare at it, at your name on display. ROGELIO calling… I wonder why I act this stupid since we have been apart. I used to answer your calls at second ring the latest, not just stare everytime.

         **Roger says:** Phone, dummie!!

I groan but pick it up.

“Hola!”

“Hey! If you just went shy on me, don’t worry, I won’t try anything! I’m quite tired. Speaking of which, why aren’t you asleep?”

I blush hard. This is why I’m glad we are not video chatting!

“Stop baby me, Rogi! I fine, no?”

I hear you chuckle softly. “You know, my t-shirt mysteriously disappeared from the locker room and I know it was you who took it, others wouldn’t dare to!”

“What t-shirt?” I decide to play the dumbest I can.

“Oh, you know you are a bad liar so don’t bother, Raf!” You are laughing.

“Hm, ok, Rog. I not know what you talk about. Maybe you no have the shirt at all and you forget! You get old, no?”

I hold my breath while you are silent, sure thinking if you really had a t-shirt with you in the first place. It’s thrilling I could make you consider it ever so slightly!

You mutter something, then say, “I’m dead sure I did have the shirt with a black and white photo on it.”

“If you say so, Rogi!” I chuckle. I want to pull you into my arms so badly this instant. My chest feels so full of my heart, full of emotions. I might not go back to you just yet but it’s not against my rules to tell you I miss you and… “I love you!”

You don’t answer right away but I can hear your content sigh and a very soft ’hmm’.

“I love you, too, Rafa. I hope you make peace with yourself soon! I wait everyday, I wait for you showing up in our door, you know!”

I perhaps should feel a bit sad by what you say but I’m only seeing it encouraging.

“I not know how long it take, Rogi.”

“I don’t care. Just get there!”

“I will. See you in morning, no?”

“Can’t wait! Sleep well, Rafito!”

“You too, Roger.”

We hung up and I throw the phone aside and move to close the chat window and the laptop when a new message shows up.

 **Roger says:** You were looking so sexy today on site I wanted to kneel in front of everyone and suck you.

Just the mention of this, without even imagining the actual scene, goes straight to my cock.

          **Rafa says:** U say no try anything!!!!!!!!!!!

         **Roger says:** ;-P I say many things!

         **Rafa says:** Loco!!!

         **Roger says:** Jaja… sleep now!

         **Roger is now offline.**

I lean back, laughing after turning my laptop off and putting it on the floor beside the bed and placing my phone and watch on the nightstand.

I don’t wanna move anymore, except of smoothing down the t-shirt with the black and white pattern that I stole from you and I’m wearing right now.

I feel light in heart and head but my cock is heavy and I’m touching myself to the image of your lips sliding up and down on me, the crowd watching, all blurry faces in the distance.

I see only you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay of updating; I had no PC for three days. I'd also like to say there will be three more chapters of Love Game, then I sort of call 'Book One' an end because that will be just the right ending. I will take a bit time off and catch up with their real life timeline in writing, then later I'm gonna start posting more, probably under the name of 'Love Game Extended' or smth like that, just to be lame enough. XD I thank you all again; everybody who had ever read chapters or the whole thing so far! Your feedback and giving me Kudos or Comments mean the world to me! :) As these are the last chapters, they are also a bit longer than usual. I hope you enjoy reading it!  
> Eh, there are some mistakes in the format of their chats; I'm sorry for that, I cannot fix it! :(


	21. Part 21

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 20th of JANUARY, 2012

I wake up earlier than supposed and a thought from last night strikes me. I immediately text you to share.

**’¡Buenos días! I no think I want our sperm mixed, no? xxx’**

Only when I’m in the bathroom and look in the mirror I notice I slept in your t-shirt. It’s wrinkled now so I wash it myself and hang it on the balcony to get dry by the morning sun. I want to wear it later again!

On my way to the site I can’t stop laughing. I have got Janko Tipsarevic’s Vlog on my phone, the episode when the other day he came to bother us about why El Clásico is called like that. Feli was telling him it was because Real Madrid always played in very classic gear. This is utter bullshit of course, but very funny.

I’m ready to have the warming up when I hear I’ve got a text message and though Toni sends daggers towards me with his eyes, I still bounce back to the chairs to check it.

**’God, Rafa, is this really a proper way to greet me in the morning? Getting me horny?? R’**

I don’t understand it at first. When I do, I burst out of laughing and despite of my uncle’s angry shouting, I must answer you.

**’Be mature, Roger, is about baby, no sex!!!!!!!!!!!! ;)’**

I mute my phone after I send the message because I perfectly know if you text me back and I hear it, I can’t do my work.

The practice goes uneventful from now on and the next reply is waiting for me when I walk off court.

**’Am I missing smth? Would you be kind to enlighten me, oh mature one? Why don’t you wanna mix our sperms? And let me inform you, I wanna!! R’**

I snicker and my cheeks feel really hot suddenly, and not by the intensity of practice.

**’I want 2. But no 4 baby! I like 2 have ur baby 1st. I think. :)’**

I don’t receive any more messages after I send this last one and I begin to think I said something bad.

I’m getting ready for my match; I still have an hour to spend, when I hear a familiar voice coming closer and closer to me, chatting with different people on the way. I start to fidget, smooth my clothes, chucking some stuff in my bag so the place wouldn’t look that messy.

You walk straight to me, a tiny smile on your face, hardly noticeable, and drop your bags at my locker. I stand up, I don’t know why.

You look around, behind you. The row of our lockers is deserted, we are alone.

“Hi, Raf,” you say, stepping to me and pulling me in a very, very tight hug, holding on me.

I’m stunned.

“Hola,” I mumble into your neck.

You release me then. “Sit!” you order me and I sit down on the bench, you following me, taking both of my hands in yours. “What you just said, it was… beautiful! How can you say something so beautiful to me, Rafa?”

I appreciate your words but I don’t know what I said that made you look at me with this much intensity and lots, lots of love.

Seeing my confusion you go on. “The baby, Raf. That you would want my baby to be our first… Uhm… Unless that wasn’t what you were talking about and in that case I have just made a fool of myself…”

I finally get it. “No, no, sí! That what I mean…” I try to nod but you catch my head and kiss me.

“Thank you!” you say after.

“De nada,” I reply. “I not know it make you this happy. Just thought of the twins, they so pretty, will be like you when they grow up, no?” I grin.

You shake your head, looking slightly amused. “You know I always thought the same of your cousins? Or just about your baby pictures. So actually I think we have to fight this because I would want _your_ kid for first. Well, if we don’t mix our sperms!” And you finally let your laugh claim you.

“Bueno! Whatever, Roger!” I join in giggling.

“I’m sorry, this is not the place where we should have this talk!” you say. “But I needed to get that out of my system before I play.”

“Is ok. I not know is such a big deal. If I know, I no talk about it in text. I just say what in my mind, no?”

You are staring at me and make some tiny, desperate noises in the back of your throat, then lean forward and kiss me again with such force that we almost fall from the bench. Breathing fast, you pull me to your body after the kiss.

“You just say whatever is on your mind! Even if it’s bad! That’s why I love you so much and want you back, Rafael,” you state, sighing.

“You never lost me, Rogi,” I reassure you and making it even more obvious, I gently bite your jaw. That is my other mating and marking ritual, we can say. I do it only with my family and those who are the closest to me.

You sigh again, this time smiling and happy. “Can I stay to watch you bounce before your match?” you ask, snickering.

“Feel free!” I nod and leave your warm body after a last kiss on your lips.

I have about 10 minutes left so I put my huge red headphones on and begin to jump to the beat of some Spanish music, eyes mostly closed. Sometimes, only sometimes, I glance at you and see you watching me, smiling, and I smile back.

The match against Lukas Lacko doesn’t really give any trouble to me. 6-2, 6-4, 6-2. We are done with it within a reasonable time and when I’m walking back to the lockers, I’m recalling that service game when the little birds came in, flew above the court and dived to pick up something from the surface.

It was such a nice, peaceful moment, just to watch them, wait for them leave and allow us to continue playing. I was thinking of you during these moments, wondering whether you were seeing it. And also thinking of something that is bigger than us, and that there is the whole Universe outside of tennis and we are only morsels of the whole of it.

Somehow it made me calm. Cheerful. Made my heart lighten and almost all the dark thoughts and memories of my own stupidity chased away.

“That’s one big grin there!” you greet me, followed by a warm embrace.

“I satisfied, no? You saw the birds?”

“Uhum,” you nod. “Left you some texts… and uhm…” You listen to your last call and quickly look at Karlovic who has just walked to the door, bags on shoulders, ready to go. Then turning back to me you go on. “So uhm… are you busy today?”

You are rocking on the balls of your feet, one hand in your pocket, the other holding your bags. You look definitely shy. Rare feature.

“Hmm, I not know, Roger. Shower, presser, then watching you… Very very busy, no?” I have to swallow a giggle, you are so sweet, obviously disturbed by something.

“Eh… no. After my match, you busy?”

“No, Rogi, I no busy after your match,” I say, still fighting hard with the laugh wanting to burst out.

“Would you like to come with me then? To go out… on a date.” That sounded kind of less confident than the other offer I got days ago. The difference is I am interested in this one.

“Sí. On a date.” And finally I let that snorting laugh out.

You shake your head, red tinting your cheeks. “Very funny!” you mutter, embarrassed.

“It still bothering you, Rog? The Novak thing.”

“Nope. You seemed very fixated on dating! I thought, let’s have a real one then!” You shrug, trying to look nonchalant but not fooling me at all.

Just this once, I am the better in hiding how much the idea excites me. “See you after the match, Rog!” I say and wish you good luck and you turn to go. “Careful with Ivo!” I add, and a voice joins in our conversation, already from the corridor, but strong enough to be heard clearly.

“I heard that, Rafa!” it says and you look at me one last time and we giggle madly.

The voice belonged to Ivo Karlovic himself.

 I rush to my locker at last and fish out my phone, finding your messages.

**’Easy match, no fair, I think of going to strike! ;-P R’**

**’Aww, that bird was so nice! Funny, isn’t it, seems they know more of life, animals, that is. While we kill each other over stupid things. R’**

**’Like, we should be grateful for having a roof above our head, food, a good bed and love… R’**

**’And I have lots lots really lots of love for you, Rafael Nadal! R’**

**’You are gorgeous and take my breath away. R’**

**’I want to touch you, Rafa!! R’**

**’I think I went too far imagining things… the match is over!! Congrats, Lover! :-) R’**

**’I still can’t get that birdy scene out of my head!! How am I supposed to play when my mind is full of YOU? R’**

I’m frozen in my place, not being able to take my eyes off that one text with my full name and lots of love in it. I’m blushing from head to toes, standing here like a fool, sweat dripping off me, never cooling on my skin because your words made me feel so hot.

It takes such hard concentration to drag myself through the undressing, showering, dressing again process. All I can think of is you and the date we planned. On my way to the media room I read the messages once more and I’m reminded of them again when the journalists ask me about the birds.

I can’t find proper words in English to describe what I would like to say and I’m also afraid of blurting out something about you, connected to this topic. So I shut up, saying sorry for my bad language skills.

Then one of them asks what I am going to do now that the match is over so early and I have a free afternoon again.

“I go see Roger if you guys leave me alone with questions!” They all laugh. “Then we go on a date.”

The women sigh and some let out tiny ’awws’, I swear!

“So, Rafa, everything is all right between you and Roger?” one of the men asks.

I nod and say a confident ’Never better!’, a phrase I learned from Andy Murray, in a Scottish accent, too.

After the Spanish media asking more questions, my duties are finally over for the day and I can join to the crowd at the center court to see you win against Ivo in straight sets. It requires high-level concentration on your part, Ivo being the tallest man in tennis and a big server. It’s very hard to break these kinds of players but you manage.

Sometimes I just forget where I am and that so many can see me and examine all my reactions. I only watch you how I always did – either as a tennis player who sees his idol and wants to become like him, or as the man who is hopelessly in love with him. Or both, mixed.

When it’s over I send you a text that says only **’** **♥** **’**.

I’m busy with typing it when I hear your on-court interview is going on with _Jim Courier_ and he is telling you that after my match he asked me, if I could take only one thing from you, from your skills or life, what it would be. You interrupt him, saying I shouldn’t take anything from you, because I have all of you for myself.

Part of the audience is shrieking, other part is laughing and I’m sure one part is shocked to the core, including me!

Jim is snickering only, how typical of him, and informs you that I chose your forehand. Then you state you would take my forehand, too, because it’s something special. The camera zooms in on me, maybe wanting to have a reaction, so I mumble I said serve.

Jim sees it, obviously, and jumps on the great occasion to embarrass us even more. “Get this one, Roger!” he tells you and shoves his microphone into your hand, then walking toward me, asks one of the steadicam guys to follow him.

I find the camera pushed in my face too soon and through its microphone everybody can hear me now.

“What did you just say, Rafa?” Jim asks.

I look at you, still hanging there on the court where Jim left you, grinning. All right, you seem okay with this game.

“I said serve,” I repeat. “I take his serve, no forehand.”

“Uhum… Okay, Rafa! My bad then,” Jim says, seemingly highly entertained by this little makeshift chat. “Roger! Anything you want to say to that?” he turns back to you.

You shrug. “You know, Jim, I’m not sure I should ever really say what I would like to take from Rafa… right now…”

I’m paralyzed. I really wish for the ground open up under me now more than ever before, while some people hiss, some cheer on crazier than before, and some begin to clap. And meanwhile you are standing there, swinging the microphone in one hand, smiling at me.

Jim still doesn’t look bothered at all. “Subtle, Rog, very subtle!”

“Good old me, Jim, like always!” you retort.

Jim laughs. “All right, I let you go and maybe get what you want from Rafa!”

You are giggling and I flee the scene as fast as my legs allow me, hearing the cheering crowd on my way.

“You runaway!” you chuckle when you catch me at the lockers. “Did I piss you off?”

I shake my head. “I no wanna be there anymore. No wanna be in the mass, let them see me and be so… eh… mierda… expuesto!”

“Exposed?”

“Sí!” I nod gratefully for the correction. I slide close when you sit on the bench beside me. “I no run away. I want to know the things you want to do with me! Want now!”

I close the gap between us and kiss you and you moan into my mouth. The kiss is pretty violent, no finesse or gentleness this time.

“Say first thing… you think of…” I mumble, nibbling on your lips.

You comb your fingers into my hair, grab it and pull it back, looking me in the eye. “Suck me!” you say, voice unfaltering.

I can’t help it, I whimper. Then yank you up from the bench and drag you to follow me.

“Rafa…” you begin but I cut in.

“Showers. We lock the door.” And we do just that, when inside.

You smirk. “Brave! You realize others will wanna come in, ja?”

“It no take that long! Undress! Or…” I change my mind and push you back into the door.

A strained ’Raf’ is leaving your lips when the air is knocked out of your lungs by the sudden movement.

“¡Silencio!” I command and you give in when I kneel and free your cock from your shorts and underwear to put it in my mouth.

It’s half hard so I swallow it easily, sucking it till the point it’s hot and heavy and doesn’t fit anymore. Then I help to cover the length with my hand, rolling your balls with the other and it indeed takes only some minutes to make you come down on my throat.

“Fuck!” you swear, sinking to the floor, laughing.

I grin back at you, feeling a bit shy now that it’s over. “Go shower, Rogi! I bring you your stuff.”

“Oh, ’s nice! But I don’t think I can move and my brain has just gone down on your throat!” you snicker.

We would sure giggle on, sitting on the floor for who knows how long, but a loud banging on the door, accompanied by rapid talking and cussing in a too familiar accent, pulls us out of the dazed state.

“I wanna say I really dunno who was the utter idiot who dared to lock us out of the shower room but I do have a wild guess, so c’mon assholes, open it and get the fuck out, I need fucking water, wankers!”

We look at each other. “Roddick!” we say in perfect synch.

If one could kill with looks, we would be dead the very moment we face Andy Roddick after opening the door. He says we should get out of here very fast and when you tell him you still need to take a shower, too, he makes the mistake of asking what you have been doing so far.

“Oh, you know, we just…” you start but Andy realizes in what mess he got himself and puts his hands on his ears, shouting he doesn’t want to hear it.

I get your shower bag and when you are done, I come to the press room with you and watch the conference on a monitor nearby. You look sedated, actually, treating every journalist with a stupid smile and long-drawn, somewhat messy answers. Exactly like someone who could fall asleep bent onto the desk in any minute. And who has just been sucked off…

We eat in the lounge again – you are really in the need of proper food to gain energy back. We must look silly for an outsider, staring at one another with wide grins on our faces. Up until you notice what I’m wearing. You can be really slow when you are exhausted!

“You fucking liar! That’s my t-shirt!” you hiss, but I’m fast enough to put up a more serious mask and lie on.

“¿Qué? Nooo! Is mine, no? Got from Nike. Always give us the same, no?”

You still look suspicious but leave it at that and I’m so happy my facade didn’t collapse.

“So where you take me, Rog?” I ask, trying not to seem overenthusiastic.

“Well, I thought the next time should happen in a bed,” you reply with a smug grin.

I dip my fingers in my glass of water and flick some drops at you. You laugh. “Okay, okay, I’m taking you to the Aquarium!”

I want to jump first but then I think of something and my face falls.

“Not good?” you ask, suddenly concerned. It’s written all over your expression and posture.

“No, is good! Just… I need to have camera with me there, no? Every year, remember?”

You sit back, smile and nod. “I already alerted them, don’t worry!”

“Oh. Bueno,” I say but feel a bit disappointed.

“Hey! What is it now?” You are searching for my eyes with yours but I keep staring at the table.

“Is no real date. We are not alone.” I sigh, knowing I seem ungrateful and spoiled.

“Aww, cute!” you coo and chuckle. “They come, we walk around for a while, they take footage of stuff and leave. Then we are alone. I arranged everything. You know, I thought you learned not to get worried when I am in charge!”

I cast a look upward, smiling now. “I should know…”

“Ready?” you ask and I let my excitement show finally and reply with the biggest yes.

Naturally, as you promised, the afternoon turns out to be fantastic. We have only one cameraman escorting us, recording some minutes here and there and saying bye before I would get used to his presence.

We are wandering about the huge space of the Aquarium later, looking at all the animals, even joining a group of kids who are there with a guide to tell them stories and all kind of information about them. We are touching manta rays and they are fascinating. I’m really already in awe before we reach my favourites, the penguins. We don’t go in their territory this time, like we did last year when I even touched one of them. We watch them only from the outside, through the glass. They are as beautiful as ever.

Time flies so fast – it’s already twilight when we leave the place. I cling to you, as if we were attached by the hips. I don’t want it to end although I’m tired.

“I have reservations in a restaurant,” you say in the car. “But you seem done.”

“Uhum…” I begin but a yawn cuts me off. You look at me with such a tender expression I almost forget what I was going to say. “No dinner out, por favor! We can call room service, no?”

You nod. I turn to my side as much as the seatbelt lets me, facing you. You look thoughtful.

“I guess that means we eat in our suite, right?” You are very, very careful with your words. It makes me giggle.

“Sí, eat.” I smile at you and I don’t know if you have other ideas but I don’t care and I wouldn’t mind either.

You are driving the car to the garage of the hotel and we take the lift up to our floor. You open the door of our room but then suddenly shut it again.

“Look, I don’t want to wait with this so I ask now. I couldn’t just go inside and order food and have a chatty dinner while I’m dying to know this. Uhm… I’m still not asking you to come home, Rafa, I promised I wouldn’t… but after we eat, don’t you wanna… Would you like to stay?” You shift your weight, looking positively nervous. It’s not something I see often. You are more charming than ever like this but I’m not sure I really like it. Asking me something should cause no stress to you.

“Just sleep with me?” you add in a slightly pleading tone when I don’t answer, too busy with thinking.

“I would love to,” I blurt out at last and you suck in a deep breath, then letting it out long.

The tension is gone and you take me in a crashing hug. “Thank you! We don’t have to do anything…”

“¡Chitón!” I shush you, putting a finger on your lips. “Let us in, Rogi!”

That’s how I find myself in our bed, watching TV after a nice, happy and chatty dinner, half sitting, and half lying on the pillows and with you between my legs, back to my chest.

You are dozing off so I slip lower to get into a more comfortable position. You startle then and turn around in my arms, move to my side, sliding your thigh between mine. We settle for the night.

“Roger…” I say, coming back from a half-asleep state.

“Hmm?”

“Is really your shirt, you know,” I admit.

“I knew it,” you murmur and turn your head to press a kiss on my lips. “You can keep it.”

So I’m richer with a t-shirt and one of the most wonderful days of my life. It was perfect in so many ways.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 21st of JANUARY, 2012

The first thing I feel when I wake up is hair in my mouth. Your hair. You slid lower in your sleep and my face is flushed to your head. I blow the curls aside, then giggle, and you stir. I want to let you have some more rest so I move to get out of bed carefully but an arm reaches out, circles my waist and pulls me back.

“Don’t go!” you ask, sleep still heavily in your voice.

I settle back to your side, my head on my pillow, and watching you lying on your back. Eyes closed, one arm still around me, holding me tight, the other hand pushing hair out of your face and staying there, idly playing with some locks at your temple.

A beautiful way to start the day, I think.

Since I’ve been gone, I haven’t initiated anything. Except of that one time in the locker room shower, I always waited for you to make the first step and declare what you want. Now it’s really hard to resist so I lift my head and kiss you on the lips, no open mouth, no tongue, nothing just a light, smooth move.

You don’t even kiss back, just smile and make some approving sounds in your throat. Then your hand that played with your own hair flies into mine. You grip the back of my neck and switch us around and lying on top of me, kiss me. A long, languid kiss.

“Do you have to be somewhere before practice?” you ask.

“Sí, interview,” I breathe it out while you are going on to nip on my jaw.

“When?”

“I check.” I reach for my phone and look at my schedule. “Have two more hour,” I say.

You wiggle on me at that, making a squeaky noise and I can feel your cock thicken. Mine, as if answering yours, swells, too.

You look at me, playfulness dancing in your eyes, smiling broadly. “Do you wanna have some fun then?”

I have to laugh. Fun is definitely another dimension for you; for example when you play a match during which I chew off all the skin around my nails, you call it fun! So fun can be varied from winning from two sets and double break down to tying me into a sex swing hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room and fuck me senseless. We have never done the latest but I wouldn’t put it behind you.

You sure took my absent expression as agreement because while I’m thinking all these, you climb over me and get the lubricant out of the nightstand drawer and grab my right hand, pouring some of the clear gel onto my fingers and smear it, massaging them.

I watch you sitting on my thighs doing it, and swallow and want to touch your cock when you are done.

You bat my hand away. “No.” And you slide closer, up on my body and spread your knees wider. “Prepare me, Rafa!”

I wasn’t expecting this and it draws an animalistic groan out of me and urges me to sit up and kiss you hard while you are busy with freeing my cock from my underwear and give it a few strokes.

Still sitting, you in my lap, I reach into your shorts with the slicked hand and trace my fingers across your entrance. You shudder and bite my lip when the first digit of my index finger slips inside.

I can’t go further, the position is not really optimal and you sure didn’t plan fucking through your boxers either. I pull my hand out of it, then grab it with both hands and rip it at the back.

You grunt disapprovingly, looking at me with wild eyes. I think you will curse me for it because abusing and ruining clothes is completely wrong, but you just say, “Someone is eager!”, and chuckle.

I want to take you so much and right now! I keep looking in your eyes and get more lube, then I rub around your hole once, twice, and push my whole index in.

“Rafa…” you moan, long and loud, bracing yourself on my shoulders.

I move my finger and maybe a bit too soon, add the second one. You bite your lower lip and your nose is scrunching in discomfort.

“Shit!” I say and try to pull out but you flex your inner muscles.

“No! Just…” you are panting. “Those… thick fingers…”

My cock throbs with every word you utter.

“Move!” you moan again, and I do, more carefully now, slowly, and catching your prostate as much as I can from this position.

I slide in my other index finger, keep them still, at place, and you begin to fuck yourself on the three of them and mumble my name continuously, trashing your head back. I’m watching, mesmerized, even wondering shortly how it could happen that I became the one allowed to pull such noises out of you.

But then you stop and push me gently back, to lie on the bed again. My fingers slip out of you but you are already pouring lube directly onto my cock, not caring about it being cold. I hiss and you giggle and say sorry and take me in your hand to warm it up on my flesh with urgent strokes.

You bend then, placing a light kiss on my lips, wet and fast, no time for lingering because you are positioning my cock at your ass and easing down on me, not leaving much time for yourself to adjust.

“Rogelio…” I mutter and your purring noises drive me crazy when you lift your body and then sink down on my cock.

You keep up a steady pace and I pull my knees up so you can lean back on them, finding support. I grab your thighs, my fingers gripping them, then smoothing up and down, and gripping again, sinking deeply in, squeezing those fine muscles there.

Your inner ones squeeze back.

“Es estrecho… Rogelio…” I whisper and you probably have no idea it means _tight_ , it doesn’t matter, it is Spanish, and your untouched and bouncing cock leaks pre-come onto my skin.

I watch, don’t reach for it; instead I slide my fingers into the curly hair on your lower belly, right at the base of your erection. You go wild, moving faster, and more drops land on me.

“So close…” you say and then I catch your cock and pull on it, following your rhythm until you tremble and arch your back, coming in my hand in quite a few spurts, one of them strong enough to send sperm onto my neck.

My head falls back on the pillow and eyes rolling back behind my lids and I can’t move because your muscles are gripping my cock so hard.

You moan, drawn out, and slowly move again, up and down, and it feels incredible how you are loosening around me, and sounds disturbingly hot what keening noises you produce now that my cock keeps running over your oversensitive bundle of nerves inside.

“I can’t…” you whimper. “Come for me… Rafa…”

It takes that much. My fingers sink back into your thighs and my hips shoot up, lifting you a bit and you are knocked forward and fall on me and lick your come off my chest and neck while I’m riding my orgasm out.

You lie on me, my cock slips out of your body, and you hum, relaxed, not bothered by the sticky fluid smeared into your hair from pubes to chest.

We are both heaving, cooling down together. Then I can feel you snicker.

“You have just boycotted my Slam. I’m aching all over!” you say, head tucked under my chin.

My hands are still resting on your thighs. I slide them over to your ass and squeeze the cheeks, then touch your backbone up to your neck and into your locks.

“¿Qué? It was your idea, no?” I answer.

You sigh deeply. “You know, Raf, it’s hot to be apart and always watch out for these opportunities.”

“Sí?” I’m just a bit surprised. “I stay away more then, no?”

You chuckle but your tone is more serious. “That’s your decision!”

The mood is tense for a moment but then you lift your head, kiss me and announce that we are in the need for a shower and a huge breakfast because you are ravenous.

Later at the Media Garden I sit around after my interview and out of the blue Rod Laver, tennis legend and the only person who could compete with you for the greatest of all time honour, shows up, comes to me, hugs me and we chat for a short while.

I’m still in awe during my practice and back in the hotel room some hours later, I decide I write an e-mail to you.

 

From: **Rafa** [rafanadal@rn.es](mailto:rafanadal@rn.es)

To: **Roger** [rogerfederer@rf.com](mailto:rogerfederer@rf.com)

Date: 21 January 2012, 20:17

Subject: Rod Laver

 

Rogi, I met Rod today and he is so nice to me!!!

I not know he like me! Is fantastic, no? :)

He hugged me and wish me best for the tourno and ESPN guys were funny, they made all the photos and videos. He like a rockstar, no? :)

Toni got starstruck, is that the word, no? He forget to bug me at practice!!!!!!!! That much starstruck!!!! I no surprised. Rod is fantastic!

I saw Kim Clijsters match too, a bit. One day Rogi, we can see a match together, no? If not the guys then girls, no?

I think of you all day. Reporters ask me of you all the time. I no have bad feeling to talk about you no more!!! It go away, no? It no… er… obsesionante. Haunt me, no? Dictionary always make me feel stupid. :(

I miss you, Rog! Morning was perfecto!!!!!

You have a good day???

¡Estoy muy contento, Rogelio!!!!!!!! ♥

I see you soon, no?

Soy todo suyo,

 

_Rafael_

xxx

 

The reply comes late in the night when I’m writing my answers to the fan questions again.

 

From: **Roger** [rogerfederer@rf.com](mailto:rogerfederer@rf.com)

To: **Rafa** [rafanadal@rn.es](mailto:rafanadal@rn.es)

Date: 21 January 2012, 23:30

Subject: Re: Rod Laver

 

My Beloved Rafael,

Guess what!? I’ve met Rod Laver just after you and he told me how wonderful a guy he thinks you are and you were all so polite and humble and silent, a real champion with all the necessary qualities! We had an interview together! It turned out kind of a praise fest when he started to ask me about you and our rivalry and personal relationship. Of course the hosts (the women!) jumped on the topic delightedly, you can imagine! ;-)

Sometimes I think these people go home and begin to write fan fiction about us, you know! Well, whatever they do in their spare time, fiction can’t be better than real life when it comes to us, Rafa!

Back to Rod, don’t you act like you have never met him before, please! :-) You did!! But I have to admit he makes me feel like a child in the candy shop, as well! I could have chatted to him about all the statistics and old times for hours! It sucks to be too busy and not just hanging out with the old folks! They are amazing to be around.

He also wished me the best of luck and also particularly against YOU! So my dear, don’t you think he actually cheers for ME in the end of the day?? ;-P No, I’m kidding, don’t pout!

How was it going, preparing for the match against Lopez tomorrow? Rhetoric question, you know. I ran into him today, later on, he was hitting serves and I joked that probably won’t be enough. I didn’t really understand his Spanish but I do think he sent me to Hell in at least 4 different ways!! :-)

Rafa, what I said, about being excited of not living together and getting these moments, like almost stolen moments… It’s true, it is! But there is nothing better than having you by my side 24/7. Like, your stuff is still here, scattered around everywhere, I haven’t made any attempt to store them because in this way I pretend you had never been gone, just, I dunno, dropped out to get a doughnut. And the next second you will walk in, back to me.

Just wanted you to know.

Good luck against poor Feliciano! I will watch it.

Oh and I’ve read your last answers in the newspaper and don’t worry, we find time and place to play doubles one day!! I mean it!

Now please, be good and do not reply, just go to sleep if you still haven’t! You have to get up EARLY!! I set my alarm, too. :-)

Yours with all my heart,

_Roger_

PS: I’m still burning inside, go figure!! ;-)

 

I smile at your letter, but my eyes are wet. You can be such a traditional guy while still adding funny little details and loving words so I feel the warmth coming through your lines. And naturally you write a letter. Not just some random sentences thrown together. A letter, a real one. Another one that will stay safe in my inbox and copied to my hard drives and pen drives everywhere so I never lose it and can keep it close to my heart for good. I have more of them from the early stages of our love, so the few I get these days value even more, being rare.

I’m afraid you will call me and tell me off, but I can’t stand not to answer, just shortly.

 

From: **Rafa** [rafanadal@rn.es](mailto:rafanadal@rn.es)

To: **Roger** [rogerfederer@rf.com](mailto:rogerfederer@rf.com)

Date: 21 January 2012, 23:58

Subject: Re: Rod Laver

 

I know I know, I should not be up!

I promise I close the laptop the moment I send this!

Want to say I love you!!!

♥♥♥♥♥

That is all, no? :)

¡Buenas noches, mi Rogelio!

Besos,

 

_Rafa_

xxx

 

And I indeed shut the laptop down, not waiting for an answer and before I fall asleep, I think of playing doubles with you as hard as I can, because I’ve been always told if we concentrate very hard and want it very, very much, it might happen sooner.


	22. Part 22

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 22nd of JANUARY, 2012

I beat Feli quite easily and I feel sorry for him but then in the locker room he cracks a silly joke and tells me you jinxed his match and begins a foam war under the showers. It’s always funnier to play against my compatriots.

“So you would give up your cozy clay surface for a last match with Roger on grass, Cachorro?” he asks while toweling off, laughing, referring to my on-court interview when I was asked what place I would choose, and against who I would like to play, if I had only one last match allowed.

“Sí! We need to play another Wimbledon final together, no?” I beam at him. Just the thought makes me giddy.

I dry off and dress up and on my way to the press room I check the texts you sent.

**’I’m ready, Raf, to watch you so stop being an ass and making Lopez wait at the net! I don’t have all the day for this, bitte!! :-) R’**

**’Not much to say about this match, is easy again, lucky boy. Nice though, too bad I can’t have a beer! :-( R’**

**’¡Enhorabuena! Now about your interview skills, Rafael… I’m so very grateful you didn’t give advices to Bernard on how to beat me tonight!! Gracias! ;-) R’**

**’On the serious note, God, is it sexy when you talk about me!! It’s thrilling! R’**

**’Wimbledon, this year, final! Let that be the goal! So we have a date on the 8th of July on Centre Court! Make note!! :-) R’**

I laugh through the whole walk on the corridors and text you back.

**’What if we r in same half @ Wimbledon??????????????’**

I sit down in my chair at the table, put my phone beside me and start answering the questions. About halfway through my conference the phone buzzes and a journalist asks who it is.

“Is Roger,” I say, smiling apologetic, ready to switch it off.

“Answer him if you don’t mind, Rafa!” says the same guy and a few ’yes’ can be heard from the stands, accompanied by excited rumble.

I shrug and pick it up. “¡Hola!”

“Chéri! Where are you?” I hear your happy voice.

“In press room, Rog,” I say and blush at the chuckles of the journalists.

You startle. “What?”

“Press, Rogi! Wait!” I ask you and turn my phone toward the bunch and invite them to say hello to you.

They do loudly, some even wave, ignoring that you can’t see them.

“Jesus, Rafa, I thought you were kidding! Your presser is going on?” you say, voice a bit frantic, caused by surprise.

I giggle. “No worry, they say is ok to talk to you, they wait.”

“Oh, well… tell them I say hi!” you laugh finally and I can just imagine you, slightly shaking your head in amusement.

“Roger say hi back,” I turn to the guys. They laugh, as well.

“So yeah, I just wanted to say I won’t let that happen, in Wimbledon, being in the same half, you know!” you go on. “So don’t worry!”

I snort, forgetting that all my words and expressions are closely monitored. “You so… eh…” I can’t recall the phrase in English so I ask the journos. “What is word for too confident?”

“Cock-sure?” one of them shouts from the upper stands and the whole room bursts out in laughter again.

“Gracias!” I thank him. “Cock-sure, sí!” I tell you. “That what you are.”

You are giggling uncontrollably. “If they upload this presser video on the website it’s becoming a legend for sure! Roddick won’t be too happy for the competition in that!... Okay, Raf, it’s already too much they got to munch on and digest! Go back to work!”

“I call back, no?”

“Sure!” you say in the tone of a ’see you later’ and we hung up.

And the new questions begin to shower on me right away, even before I mute my phone. The poor moderator has to warn the press members to calm down and ask me one by one again.

“Would you mind telling us what that was about, Rafa?” a man starts.

“No, is just about my on-court answer, no? I say if I have only one match to play, I want play Roger in Wimbledon.”

“Did Roger call you for this?”

“Sí. He say we can play final this year, no? Then I say what if we are in same half of the draw, no? And he say he no let that happen.”

I can tell they are amazed by this.

“Don’t you think Novak will have some say in that, Rafa?”

“Oh sure he will,” I laugh and shrug. “But Roger is stubborn, no?” I smile at them and we leave it at that for now.

I pack my equipment at the lockers and whilst walking out to find my team members and get a car that takes us back to the hotel, I call you.

You say we have just missed each other and it makes me sad.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you reassure me. “Are you gonna come to my match?”

“No, I think I watch on TV, no? But if you want me…”

“No, that’s all right, Rafa! Too bad I can’t have you around for more post-match chat though,” you giggle and I roll my eyes for myself. “How did the presser go after I called?”

“Oh, I tell them what you say, no? They said Novak will no like it!”

“Pfft. This is not his year. This is mine. You come as second.”

I laugh. “Cock-sure, no?”

“God, you always learn the bad words so easily!”

“Because I look at you and I remember, no?”

“Whatever, Raf! Enjoy free time! I gotta go warm up.”

“Rogi… good luck to 999th match, no?”

“Merci!”

“¡Hasta pronto, Rogelio!” I say ’see you soon’ and we end the call.

The best thing that happens today is your wonderful win against Bernie Tomic. It’s easier than mine was, despite of him being very young and eager, a real rising star, and, as he is Australian, having the local audience supporting him. It was not his time yet to experience something as big as defeating the best player ever.

You played gracefully. Putting Bernard into his place but doing it gently, as if telling him ‘Now, now, Kid, it’s okay, your time will come, just keep working hard!’

It looked beautiful. You looked beautiful. I caught myself holding my breath sometimes.

You got the biggest roaring cheers when Jim brought up your upcoming 1000th match on Tour and you randomly mentioned my name and went on to chatter about me. It made my heart ache a bit for being present at Rod Laver Arena.

The worst thing that happens is that we don’t meet again today.

We exchange some texts, you say you are tired, and I go to bed alone, my mind slipping to the semi-final already, no matter we still have quarter-finals to fight.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 23rd of JANUARY, 2012

The beginning of the day turns out to be sort of catastrophic, at least in my dictionary.

In the morning I think I surprise you and knock on your door quite early to offer swimming together. But you are gone. So I go down to the pools, and you are not there either.

Later we talk and you tell me you had some stuff to film and around noon you are going out to the vineyard you usually visit while in Australia. The vineyard _we_ usually visit…

“Can you come?” you ask but I have to say no.

“I have practice at 2, Rogi. Is long drive,” I sigh.

“You see, this is why you shouldn’t be away from me! ’Cause we can’t really plan stuff like this.”

“We plan fine before, Rog!”

“Yeah, so then don’t give me the yearning sighs! This is just one fucking time! And you want to be apart, not me!”

“So is my fault you no call me and tell where you go, no?” I’m getting pissed off.

“No, I say why don’t you just get your act together already, Rafael, and come back and be there to plan things if it’s so bad for you when I happen to go out alone, just once?”

I make a desperate sound and you breathe harder. “I not ready, Roger,” I admit.

“Fine, then don’t blame me!”

“I no blame you! Eh… is stupid! Should no argue of this.”

“Indeed.”

“Roger…”

“Yes?”

“You still bring me my favourite wine?”

There is silence at the other end of the line. And then, “I’ll see. I have to go. Later?” you kind of ask it, pretty carefully.

“Sí,” I answer.

Right after we hung up I send a message to you.

**’¡Lo siento, Rogelio!!!!!!!!! xxxxx’**

**’I’m sorry too. Love you, you fool!! R’** , you reply before I could even blink.

 **’Paz?’** I ask you then.

 **’Frieden, ja! R’** you write and all is well for now.

I’m reading outside on my small balcony in the evening when you suddenly stand here at the door.

“Hey! Marc let me in,” you declare with a half-smile. “I brought you something.” And you pull out a bottle of white wine that was hidden behind your back.

I drop my book, stand and hug you, with the bottle pressed between our chests.

“¡Gracias! I really sorry, Roger!” I say.

“It’s cool. Nevermind!” We let go of each other and walk inside, you carrying the wine, I carrying the book.

“Rogi…”

“No, please! I know that tone and there is no need to apologize again! Instead… hear me out?”

I nod. You put down the bottle and we sit.

“It wears me down, Raf,” you begin to explain, looking me in the eye. “That you are away. Gets on my nerves sometimes and then I snap. Especially if you make it look like I have to answer to you about where I go and why not with you, when it is you who was not there in the first place," you let out a long sigh. "I miss you. Everything is pretty fucked up without you, even if I usually seem to be okay. I’m not! Never okay with this, Rafa!”

“I understand,” I say.

You nod and I know that was it, you closed this topic.

“There is more wine at home, I just thought you might want some to your seafood soon,” you tell me and burst out in giggles.

“What?”

“Just… so funny how we are. Like teens not knowing what to do with each other sometimes.”

“I know what to do with you, Roger.”

“You do?”

“Sí!” And I kiss you, knocking you back on the bed, one hand in your hair, the other still holding the book.

“What’s this?” you ask when we part.

I show you the cover.

“The Little Prince? In English?”

“Sí. Is a bit hard for me, no? But nice.”

You open it at the part I am now. “You are far in it. We had to read this in French class, you know. I haven’t seen it since then,” you explain and it sounds like you actually regret that.

“You want to read it to me?” I ask, hopeful.

“Sure,” you say. “Get in bed, it’s getting late anyway!”

I oblige and you get comfortable on my bed, too, and begin to read loud.

 

 

> So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--
> 
> "Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."
> 
> "It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you..."
> 
> "Yes, that is so," said the fox.
> 
> "But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.
> 
> "Yes, that is so," said the fox.
> 
> "Then it has done you no good at all!"
> 
> "It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added:
> 
> "Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."
> 
> ~  ~  ~  ~  ~
> 
> The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
> 
> "You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."
> 
> And the roses were very much embarrassed.
> 
> "You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you-- the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is _my_ rose.
> 
> ~  ~  ~  ~  ~
> 
> And he went back to meet the fox.
> 
> "Goodbye," he said.
> 
> "Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
> 
> "What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.
> 
> "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."
> 
> "It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.
> 
> "Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose..."
> 
> "I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

 

“You know… I’m thinking…” you begin, closing the book. “You awake, Raf?”

“Sí,” I mutter, eyelids heavy, closing. “Go on!”

“I dunno if I should laugh at my thought or cry!” you admit.

“Cry?”

“Yeah… I mean, when you called me a rose…” you continue and I am widely awake suddenly.

“Roger…”

“No, listen!” you interrupt me. “If I think of that, after reading this, I guess I am the rose after all. Because you tamed me. And actually, you have every right to call me whatever you want, too! Because I am yours, and you take care of me and it doesn’t really matter if sometimes you hurt me, it’s still you who stands beside me. But maybe I see more into it again.”

I look at you. “No. It make sense. Is love, no? Simple.”

“Yeah, simple,” you smile. “More?”

“¡Sí, por favor!”

And you read on and on and I’m thinking perhaps I am the fox then… Tamed by you.

And also my rose is unique in all the world.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 24th of JANUARY, 2012

I wake up to my alarm; tucked in, still in clothes, minus socks. I turn over to look for you but I am alone. It feels really disappointing for a minute but then it hits me: today is the big day!

Today we play our quarter-finals and the results will set up the dream-semi-final. At least that’s what they were calling it throughout the tournament. And in case we both win, of course.

This puts a crazy grin onto my face and gives me a kick to jump out of bed.

I’m eating doughnuts with Nutella and texting you in no time, although suddenly I realize I have no idea what to say on a day that holds this much of importance.

So I only clumsily ask, **’Roger???’** , and you apparently won’t make it easier for me because your reply comes soon in the form of a short questioning back.

**’Hm? R’**

**’Eh, de nada, just… bon día!!!! Want 2 come eat gambas 2nite???? :)’** , I write, giggling at how silly this sounds.

You seem to be thinking the same. **’Morning, Rafa! This was the most awesome stalling ever! Yes, I’d like to have gambas with you! :-) R’** , you say, and then, **’So how are you feeling on the most crucial day of the AO?? ;-) R’**

I burst out of laughter over my Nutella doughnut.

 **’I feel i ♥** **u, no? :D :D :D’**

**’Stop beating around the bush, Rafa! Anyways, I gotta go to warm up and win the bloody match vs. Juan Martin to GET INTO THE BLOODY SEMIFINAL!! R’**

**’I no beat bush, i luv plants, no? ;-p I no wish u have fun, Rogi, ur fun match always give me heart attack!!!!!!!! i wish u WIN!!!!! :) :) ¡Vamos, Rogelio y hasta luego!!!’**

**’:-) I behave if you promise you’ll be there when I come off court! R’**

**’Deal!!!!!!!!!!!!! xxxxx’**

I am indeed there, sitting in your box with your team, gaping at you in the first quarter hour of the match, because you are moving in the Zone. Poor Del Potro, I think, and I can leave you to your task with light heart when I go to warm up.

I’m back for the last games, seeing you win in straight sets and with that, securing your place in the semi-final.

The audience is ecstatic, Jim is ecstatic, and based on the hugest toothy smile I saw on your face the last week, you are the happiest man alive.

When Jim asks you to give your guess about who your opponent will be in the semis, you answer diplomatically that it’s going to be a very exciting match between Berdych and me. But Jim, being Jim, doesn’t let you get away that easily.

“All right, Roger, allow me to reword my question! Who would you like to play against in the semi-final?” he says, chuckling.

You look back at the box probably all by instinct, searching for me with your eyes, holding my gaze for a moment and then turning back to Jim.

“Rafa.”

The people are screaming all around and I see my face up-close on the giant screen. The cameraman seems stubborn enough not to let my image fade until I react, so I wave and duck my head quickly.

I rush back to the locker room but on my way hear the next topic Jim introduces.

“So tell me, Roger, how does it feel to play your 1000th match on Tour?” he asks, and what comes after dampens every attempt of yours to reply.

Very likely every member of the audience are on their feet, clapping, whistling, surely causing temporary hearing problems to one another for the next minutes.

I’m still smiling while checking my gear and finding some classic background music on my iPod when you arrive and hug me from behind.

“Good match,” I say, leaning back into you.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much if you don’t win yours, does it?” you retort.

“Oh, I thought you can no put more pressure on me, Rogi!” I snort and roll my eyes.

You giggle and nuzzle into my nape. The last fellow player who was still around makes a desperate, throaty noise, and escapes as fast as he can.

“1000 match, hm?” I murmur and you sigh.

“Yeah, now that you mention… I’m fucking tired!” you state and sit down on the bench, turning me a bit in your arms and pulling me onto your lap. “Oh shit, you are heavy!” you complain.

“You same heavy so shut up, no?”

You shrug. “I didn’t wanna talk anyway. I want my well-deserved prize for my win!”

And I kiss you and you kiss me back; it’s velvety, hot and just a bit sweaty.

“I have to go, Rogi,” I whisper.

You nod and push me up. “Go jump. I watch.” You slap my ass when I’m standing again.

“But… press?”

“Oh, they can wait for their king.”

My eyes roll on their own. “You act like you really got in final, not in semi!”

“Ohno, watch me act like I’m in the final when I beat you in the semi, Rafa!” you wink.

I cover my ears. “I no want to hear that! You jinx my match!” And I frantically search for my headphones to put on, the sooner, the better, and switch the music on.

You don’t stay at the tennis complex for my match, claiming you really need a relaxing massage as soon as possible and then some comfortable couch to lie on and watch me on TV.

After I lose the first set to Tomas Berdych, I have to agree. This is going to be a Hell of a battle.

I spend the next 3 hours in my tennis bubble, trying hard not to fall out of it for a second, and so I win the match in four sets. At the handshake at the net I feel the rocks rolling off my chest and I perfectly know my grin looks idiotic when I approach Jim for the on-court interview.

I tell them all I’m very happy and congratulate Tomas again because he played fantastic. Then Jim, his wide smile almost matching mine, goes on to the inevitable.

“Semi-final, Rafa,” he says, leaving the end of the sentence open.

I know where he wants to lead me but I don’t cooperate just yet. “Yes…” I say.

Everybody is laughing.

“Well, let’s be official then!” Jim goes on smoothly. Really nothing can shake this man! “You are in the semi-final of a Grand Slam again, against none other than Roger Federer. Share your thoughts on that with us, would you?”

“Oh… uhm… It is fantastic to me, no? I had injury and no time to prepare but it seem the season start very good for me, no?”

Jim shakes his head. “Yes, now leave the usual rounds, Rafa! Tell us, how does it work when you and Roger play these important matches against each other?”

The audience is getting excited, they were sure waiting for Jim digging deeper.

“Eh… Is the same, no? Like before. We are two tennis player who play tennis,” I shrug sheepishly.

“Yes, yes, beating each other into oblivion on every occasion, we know very well!” Jim states and it raises laughter from the crowd. “How does that not interfere with your personal life? It cannot be easy to keep the balance.”

“Live with Roger… is already no easy, no?” I giggle. “It no matter if is a match day between us or a normal day.”

“How do you guys cope? What do you do to keep it sane as much as possible?”

“Oh Roger keep me sane,” I shrug. “When he lose it rarely, I am calmer, no? It work.”

Jim is still not pleased. “But please tell us how do you guys spend such a day, when you are destined to face the other on court!”

I snort and the people laugh. “How much detail you want, Jim?” I ask him and some red patches show up on his cheeks. I didn’t know he was capable of blushing!

In talking he is still unfaltering. “As many details as you are willing to share, Rafa!”

I sigh. “Uhm… okay. So we just do everything like other days, no? First it was weird, I remember the first final we played after we moved in together. But soon you get used to it, no? Sometimes we warm up together before! I really like that. Then when it is time to get on court, we hug each other and kiss and go out and you see the rest, no?”

“Yes, we do, definitely! And how does it go during the match? Don’t you ever just look at Roger across you and think how bad it is that you are supposed to beat your partner?”

I shake my head. “No, I err… how you say it? Close it out, no?”

“Exclude, yes.”

“Sí. Is harder for Roger. But is not that I am a heartless person, no? But we go on court and play tennis in the end, no? It no matter that is the man I love, always I want to win. He want to win, too.”

I hear some awing from the spectators.

“And at some point there is a winner, obviously,” says Jim. “Was that never a problem between you two, to face each other, one of you as the winner, the other as the loser of a match of great importance?”

“Sometimes, sí. You have to let it cool down. Leave time for the other, no?”

“Of course. And who is the more short-tempered in those situations? Who is the sorer loser, if you want?”

“Now is really the same. Before I had some bad time after big matches and Roger had some, too. It not get easy to lose just because you lose to your lover, no? But we are happy for the other, so if you read in newspaper that we no talk after one beat the other, that is not the true!” I finish cheekily, jabbing a bit at some journalists. They sure know who they are!

Jim giggles along with the crowd again and now seems satisfied with the longest post-match interview he ever conducted.

“So, Rafa, talking of that partner of yours… When I came down here from my commentator box, I ran into a person right there,” and he points at the players’ entrance tunnel, “inside, you know, hiding in the shadows, and apparently biting his nails, which if I recall right, is very uncharacteristic of him…”

I surely make saucer eyes because there is light giggling again everywhere. “Roger is here?” I ask and Jim barely nods, I already leap forward, leaving my bags lying there on court, and running into the tunnel.

“Well, thank you for your patience, Rafa!” I hear Jim joking and ending the interview, but I’m not interested anymore, I’m running and when I find your figure indeed standing there, I run just faster.

I see you holding up a hand and shouting ’Slow down!’, but all I can do now is crashing into you with full force, jumping in your arms, and we stumble backward, hitting some very badly placed chairs behind us.

“God, Rafa…” you begin but I don’t care and push my lips onto yours, kissing you with all my passion.

“You came,” I say when we part for proper breathing.

“Yes, I couldn’t sit at home anymore. Why can’t you play a normal match, huh?”

I laugh. “Jim just say you bite your nails!”

“Hmm, no, obviously not, because of my manicure!”

I chuckle on and the sounds from center court start to come back to me.

“Hear that? They are still cheering for you! Better you go back and give some signs!” you advice. “I’ll be here, waiting.”

It’s very late when we get back to the hotel room and I text Marc that I won’t return to his suite tonight. Then I call the little Spanish restaurant we discovered years ago with Uncle Toni and my Dad, and ask them for delivering us some _gambas de ajillo_. Although they don’t do take-away, having made friends with the owner, he always sees personally into that I get my food sent. Fortunately they are also open until 1 am, so it’s not too late to order.

I just love to watch you eating garlic shrimps! It’s always sensual to see you leaving the fork and knife and making sort of cones of the tortilla, filling it with the shrimps and vegetables. Sometimes I forget to eat in order to stare at you. Other times I get turned on and we both forget to eat.

This time I only grunt when you suck the garlic sauce off one shrimp because I don’t have an ounce of strength left in my body to do anything about my desires.

We are having some wine to the food, just in a moderate manner and later when we are full and ready for bed, you go back to the living room and I hear you fuss about in one of your bags.

“I want to introduce you someone!” you say, coming in the bedroom, holding something behind your back. “Seems Ozee and Bear got a new mate.” And you show me a stuffed kangaroo that carries an Australian and a Swiss flag. “Got her from my fans today.”

“Aww, canguro! I can name her Cangu, no?”

“Sure,” you laugh. “Name geek!”

I’m playing with Cangu when I notice you watching me, calculating something.

“¿Qué?” I ask, uncertain. I can’t tell whether it is just warmth or lust I see in your eyes.

You confirm both, saying, “I really would like to make love to you, Rafa!”

Cangu stops in my hands at mid-bounce. I stare at you. I want to, as well. Clearly, taking the jump my cock made in count. But what I need more than anything is sleep right now.

“In morning?” I offer.

“Morning then,” you agree.

I put Cangu down at the very corner of the bed and turn on my stomach, my back toward you, finding the most comfortable position to fall asleep.

“Will you ever stop fidgeting?” you ask, giggling.

“Why?” I ask back over my shoulder.

“Just because…” you say and coming close you press your naked body to mine, right hand sliding in my hair, the left arm encircling me and resting on my chest. “Because of this!” you add and I feel your content sigh on my neck.

“I can stay still for this, sí,” I confirm and push back into your embrace happily.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 25th of JANUARY, 2012

Featherweight touches are caressing me, smoothing over my spine, reaching my ass. I spread my thighs and moan into my pillow.

“Good morning!” says a husky voice and lips are ghosting over my ear, a tongue flicking out and licking the shell.

I smile sleepily, and let gentle but strong hands prepare me, slippery fingers sliding in an out of my body in the most torturous way.

There is no talking; only movements are directing the act.

The same hands carefully turn me around, onto my back, and lift my thighs to hug hips.

Hard flesh sinks in my ass and your body presses down on me, trapping my cock between bellies, stroking it with every thrust.

You exhale into my mouth, tongue dipping in over and over again.

I push myself up into the drives until this coordinated dance forces us into incoherence, building our orgasms slowly, up to falling over the edge together, moaning, panting, and crashing into each other in the end.

I shake with the aftershocks under you and you pull away, believing it’s not comfortable anymore, and I don’t have the strength to say otherwise.

I whimper at the lack of closeness so you slip to my side again, bend, and kiss me, taking your time, as long as I don’t moan anymore but sigh into the kisses.

You order breakfast, asking for it to be serviced in half an hour and until then we are having sex again in the shower, me facing the glass wall, you taking me from behind.

After eating in convenient silence and much kissing at the door, we part to mind our own business but I can’t shake off the feeling I brought with me from the morning all day.

In the evening I’m thinking of packing up my stuff I have at Marc’s and move back in our suite, because there is no way I want to spend another night in a stranger bed, without your arms holding me.

But then I receive your text.

**’Good night and see you at the site before the match tomorrow! <3 R’**

I stare at the message for long; it hurts a bit that you don’t want to see me until the semi-final, but also adds to the anticipation. So I decide I don’t mind. If you want it this way, you have it.

**’¡Te quiero! ¡Hasta mañana, Rogelio! ♥** **’**


	23. Part 23

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 26th of JANUARY, 2012

I don’t remember how I stumbled through this day. The only sure thing is that we don’t communicate at all for long. You don’t seek me for the pre-match warming-up and that is an obvious sign of taking this very serious and wanting to win.

Then again, when I’m having my pasta with olive oil two hours before we start, you walk in the lounge and drop down in the chair across me.

“Hi, Babe!” you say with a pert grin.

It throws me totally off. “Rog…” I breathe it out.

“Are you ready?” you ask and I don’t know what to say suddenly.

I settle with the truth and after shortly examining my feelings I shake my head. “No.”

You laugh. “Don’t be silly, Rafa! Here I thought I was the only one nervous!”

This makes me relax finally. “You no look nervous, Rogi,” I tell you.

“Well, I am,” you snicker and seem fidgety for the first time. “Don’t you think we would need some sexual release before?”

I get the hiccups at that. “We agree not do that again, Roger!” I remind you.

“No, you said you wouldn’t do that again because I sucked your energy out of you!” you correct me and giggle on.

“Sí!”

“Not that I could beat you back then,” you say, “just because your dick was shoved down on my throat one hour before the match!”

I stare at you completely puzzled. “This your tactic today, Rogi? Confuse me with sexual things?”

“Hm, maybe?” you wink at me and thank the waiter for serving your food meanwhile.

I’m done eating but wait for you finishing it.

“Is quiet now, no?” I say, looking around.

“Oh, no, Novak is still here! Very, very loud! I’ve just met him, he clearly stated he was going to be around to cheer for you,” you inform me, rolling your eyes.

I giggle. “He afraid of you. If you beat me, you beat him in final. I just know. You are his nightmare, Rog. Like he is mine, no?”

“And like you are mine?”

“No. When I beat you, you still fuck me, no? When he beats me, you still fuck me! He never get any, I think that is problem, no?” I explain seriously but crack at the end, starting to laugh really loud.

“So all this is never about tennis in the end?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

I nod. And nervousness is gone, happiness and excitement taking its place.

“I am ready now,” I say before we are going out to the centre court.

You nod. “Let’s see if my lefty practice was worth it!”

And you leading us, we are walking on our way through the corridors, down the stairs, and wait a bit at the entrance tunnel. I watch your back in front of me, seeing you fix your headband one last time, and move the strap of your tennis bag a bit higher on your shoulder before the announcer shouts your name into his microphone.

Then you take a step forward but as if you had changed your mind, stop and turn, to look at me. It makes me stop my usual jumping and freeze. You smile a bit, wink at me and walk out on court. I have to shake myself out of the moment for I hear my own name called and have to follow you.

We meet again at the net for the coin toss and you choose head as always and it’s head. I’m not surprised, actually. You say you would like to warm up at the opposite side of the court because Diana and the twins are there to watch you for a while. I didn’t know this beforehand and a bitter thought rushes through my head. This has to change back. I cannot miss more of our life.

I look at you again and there is a weird expression on your face. I realize I missed the rule explanation about the challenge system and only vaguely heard about the firework warning, too. And you are waiting for me patiently to get closer and pose for the photographer.

I step beside you, the net separating us only, and your palm slips to the small of my back immediately.

“You okay?” you whisper quickly.

“Sí!” I nod and smile when we are done and parted, to welcome the little kid who earned the honour to help at the toss and have a picture taken together with us.

He comes between us and first I put my hand on his tiny back, but then I feel yours curling over me again, and warmth spreading through my skin. I glance at your casually smiling profile and as an answer, touch you back.

I think it must seem as I’m being distracted because I’m certainly acting funny. But I have never been this ready.

We don’t say anything – no wishing good match, no other silly sentiments –, only nod to each other, leave the net and change sides.

On my way to my side I almost run into the boy and he looks at me briefly with huge starry eyes and I can’t help it, I slow down to pat his head. When I settle at the baseline to begin warming up, you are ready across me, with a determined face and posture. So I smack the first ball to your side and you smack it back, just lightly, and a giddy feeling conquers me. It has begun…

During the warm-up I see your nephew and niece on the big screen many times and I have to stifle my grin. They are just too cute for their own good, caught on camera giving trouble to their nanny and Diana.

My light cheery mood is gone when you win your first service game in one minute, mercilessly. And more gone when I struggle in mine and lose it. And completely disappeared when your perfect returns start to annoy me to no end! And I understand again that there is no more beautiful match-up for me than this one, regardless what other rivals I faced or will face in the future. This makes me calm in the end and the enjoyment factor appears.

Then I get a serve and volley and a drop shot in my face next and I want to laugh but also smash my racquet into _your_ face for playing unbelievable and certainly knowing it.

You lead by 4 to 1 when I see finally that this is one of those times when I have to settle down with enduring your greatness and say thanks to everything above because playing tennis doesn’t ever get more wonderful than this. And so this is the point when I can arrive into this match. When I surrender first and accept and survive.

I break you back and we are at 4-3, you still leading, when I serve with new balls. I show the ball to you, you wave back, and I think, okay, let’s have some fun now!

Soon it’s 4 games to all, then 5-4 to you with another love game. You piss me off, in a good meaning, if there is one. It makes me more eager to hold my serve, which I do and take the result to 5 games to all. Though after that you hold your serve easily, and it’s 6-5 to you.

At one point you fall onto your knees and I don’t like that at all. Even during hitting the ball I’m taking a long glance at you, looking for any damage, but you just get up and still try to hit my shot back. The point is mine but I don’t care this time. I look at you again, concerned. And suddenly you find my eyes with yours, send a piercing gaze to my direction, like the wild animals taking a first look at their prey. Sending the message: I’m fine, bring it on!

I love you so much at this moment. For always knowing I need reassurance when something unexpected happens; for always giving me that reassurance so I can move on.

I hold again and taking it to a tiebreak. Where almost nothing goes as I would like it to. You control my game and it’s really painful. I can not do anything but scream inside.

I try everything in my power, save two set points, but you win the third and the set by that.

I hear the roaring _yes_ breaking up from your throat and the cheering of your fans, the supporting shrieks of my fans, and I think it’s not bad, it’s okay, it was tight and still nothing is lost.

I catch you looking at me shortly, body language telling me you are the boss and you have just shown it. But warm brown eyes smooth over me, as if saying, ‘Hey, calm, it’s just the beginning!’

I almost break out in smiling at that and brace myself for what is coming.

And then you break me in my very first service game of the second set. I can’t believe you! I look at my box and Toni, my Dad, my Uncle Miguel, they all clapping for you. So I duck my head and leave this game behind me and try to get back to high spirit when I face your serves.

And then it begins. I hit a nice forehand winner and you smash three shots wide and long after. I break right back. One game all.

I have no idea what has just happened to you but I don’t have time to think about it either. I have the next game to win. Which I do, even though I lose my composure for a moment when I look at you standing there on the other side of the net, just standing, waiting for me get ready to serve. You look unsettlingly beautiful, some breeze catching into your hair and I drop the ball I was bouncing and stretch clumsily to get it back in my hand.

You get pissed off now, when the numbers change to 2-1 to me. I hear you muttering something to yourself. I always hear you and feel you, no matter how loud a crowd around us gets. And I am again thinking of inappropriate stuff; I want to ravish you when you look this perfectly disgruntled.

I again don’t have much time for my thoughts wandering off because the next game is coming and you play it with lightning speed, so much that during the first points I forget to grunt. Another love game and I feel more and more heated by the minute.

I struggle on my serve again, your returns are making me feel desperate and sometimes just stand there with wide open arms, half shrugging in frustration. Still, I come back from facing a break point and win the game. 3-2 to me right now.

Then you lose it a bit and suddenly I have 3 chances of breaking your serve. Two of those are saved by you but I manage to make the last and lead 4-2. After this I hold without problems and it’s 5-2 to me. Some really stored emotions break up from me and I hear myself shouting, screaming, and my fist pumps into the slightly cooling Aussie air.

Out of the blue, as I completely forgot about this, they say it is Australia Day fireworks time now. I’m taken aback, it runs through my mind what if I lose momentum now, but I compose myself. I search for you with my eyes and see you are gone so I skip after you to the locker room at once.

I find you sitting on a massage desk, legs hanging, and drinking some energy drink.

I freeze, not knowing how to approach you. It’s a difficult and rare situation, to meet anywhere else but on court during a match. It happens only when we have the play suspended due to rain.

“I won’t bite,” you say softly, recapping your bottle.

I come closer to stand by the table. You reach out to touch my arm. “I hope the delay won’t throw you off! As I’m already thrown off anyway,” you say and chuckle lightly.

“No think of that, Rogi!” I really don’t like what you are saying.

“I can’t think of anything else,” you admit.

“Then think of this!” I offer and taking the last step to close the gap, I catch your head in my palms and kiss you.

You make a protesting noise and don’t kiss back so I release you.

The glare I get is one of the most uncomfortable I have ever had to stand.

“Lo siento…” I whisper.

“This is messing with my head, Rafa. So can you just… please, stay away!” you ask and I regret what I have done.

I walk to my locker and get out my iPod and headphones and spend the next five or six minutes with bouncing to music, occasionally stealing short glances at you.

When the handler comes to call us back to the court I look at the place where you sat but it’s empty now.

I rush back out to the arena, where the fireworks are still on, and see you jumping and stretching behind the baseline. You seem being retreated in your own inner world so I decide to shut it out and bring myself back into match situation.

When the fireworks are over, we are both waiting by our respective sides to restart. I watch you watching the last flickering lights of it and then shortly looking at me to see if I am ready. I nod so you give me a small thumb-up… and hit double faults.

A bad feeling immediately crawls up on my spine.

And you lose 11 points in a row, most of them on unforced errors or double faults. I suddenly win the second set and my first service game in the third and have you struggling on yours. It’s still 1 game for all because you hold, but it’s obviously very hard for you.

I don’t know if it was the fireworks break or my behaviour in the locker room that got you this much bothered and I can’t allow myself to think of this now. I need to keep my mind clear of any distraction from the game.

Playing that flat doesn’t last so long for you and I’m happy about it when I see you are finding your rhythm again.

I still win a love game behind my serve but you do, too. I’m playing my usual physical game, hitting some pretty good winners after sending you run from one side to the other and back. But you make such outrageously ridiculous shots that can be hit only by someone sent to the Earth to play tennis of the Gods.

And this is how it’s balanced out between us.

I begin to think that we are going to go head by head until the inevitable tiebreak again when you, after 5 break points, win my serve game and get the lead 4 games to 3.

You noticeably have a kind of new game plan to beat me so I know now that was why you were always so confident and mysterious after some good practice sessions. But I also see that sticking to it forces you to take higher risks, to hit longer, to hit wider, closer to the lines, hence the making of more errors.

So I concentrate on trying to break back right away and I manage. Four games to all.

I’m sweating loads, hair stuck to my neck, and briefly I think of you once telling me I look sexy like this. I find it ridiculous but then again, you look beautiful when sweaty, and I always savour those times when I can see you like that, especially because it hardly shows on you and mostly only on your chest where you are so hairy. And I love that smell, oh God! And I shouldn’t think of this at the moment, in the middle of a semi final! Suddenly I can’t wait for it to be over and just be able to hug you, touch you, get all my sweat on you and push my fingers to the place where the shirt is stuck to that chest.

I still continue to play tennis while having these uncalled thoughts and when I wake up from them, we reach that tiebreak I expected coming sooner or later. We both had chances to break before but neither of us could live with the opportunities. So now it’s up to the lottery again, how sometimes you address it. Or the penalties, how I call it.

It goes so fast I hardly blink and you are pretty much destroying yourself, hitting unforced errors everywhere, letting me lead 6 to 1 soon and have 5 set points. I miss 4 of them, two on my own serve. It’s nerve-wrecking how you seem coming back and slight panic creeps up on me. But before it could claim me fully, I win that last necessary point and take the third set.

I wish you were looking at me right now, so I could send you the same positive vibes you sent me after the first set. But I see only your back turned to me.

The fourth set is going faster somehow, I’m not sure about the actual time but it moves forward smoothly, we both holding our serves.

At 4-3 lead to you I’m ready to serve and you are ready to receive but the spectators of Rod Laver Arena decide they are enjoying this match so much they need to do the Mexican waving so we have to wait until they calm down.

We are just standing there, looking around, then looking right at each other and this is a remarkable moment and I’m happy to see a very tiny smile playing on your lips, and I smile back, just secretly, and feel so happy that I am aware of this beautiful thing and we share living through it.

From 4-4 the audience doesn’t stop screaming in awe for every point made, every shot hit, and every ball being called out. There is hardly a silent second from now on and I’m running in ecstasy, chasing down your brilliantly placed balls.

This is what I like, this is where I love to be, at this grinding level of perfection, when we both give our best, playing from heart and soul, not from routine, because that wouldn’t ever be enough to beat each other. And dancing on the edge, knowing well that nuances will decide and having not the slightest idea who will be the chosen favourite of Fortuna in the end.

She, as Goddess of Fortune, seems to be choosing me when I take the next service game of yours and lead by 5-4 now, getting the chance of serving for the match.

Too soon we arrive to the first match point that I lose and instead of winning it all, I’m up to face break point on my serve. Nuances. Hitting a winner, making an unforced error. You never know what’s next, there is no such thing as predictable playing tonight.

We are going back and force between advantages to you and deuce a couple of times and then finally there is an advantage for me. And you hit the ball long at the end of the last rally and I don’t know what I am doing and how it is being seen with outsider eyes. I’m uncontrolled.

For some moments there is only one thing I know.

I won.

Then it hits me again, like every time we play each other: you lost.

It’s always a double-faced feeling.

You are waiting for me at the net, almost at the end of it, so we don’t have a long way to walk and I think this is intentional from you. The hug is very short, no usual lovely words, only shared congratulations and a muttered ’’later’’ on your part. Then the shocking heat of your body is leaving me and I barely register I’m shaking hands with the chair umpire and toss my wristband into the crowd and go back on court to celebrate, to kneel and shake my fists, looking up to the night sky, closing my eyes tightly.

I rise again, clap at the audience, thanking them for the support and then going back to my bench I point at you with my hand, sort of offering you up to them, to worship, to appreciate the tremendous effort you made in this match.

You are already done with packing and soon walk by me and I’m applauding to you along with the people in the arena who don’t show any attempt to go home, instead of that they give you a standing ovation and the loudest cheers that sure escort you through the walk back to the locker room.

I know that walk well and it is very lonely.

I know how it is, wanting to leave the court as soon as possible before you explode in front of thousands because of the disappointment and frustration you feel after a lost battle.

My heart is breaking for you and I know it’s less and less curable by every win over you.

Still, by the weird joke of Fate, this is also a happy time for me. I change my t-shirt to the jacket and meet Jim for the interview.

I don’t feel very much coordinated in my speech at first when he asks me about the tight first set. I just say when you play more and more aggressive it’s always impossible to stop you.

“Well, Rafa, what did you just think when you were at 6-1 in the 3rd set tiebreak then? Even more, what were you thinking when Roger came back and you were at 6-5?” Jim asks.

I sigh and an exhausted but happy smile breaks out on my face. “Eh… Please win the point… that’s all,” I say honestly and make the audience laugh. “I was very, very nervous at that moment, no? Losing 4 set points in a row is tough in a tiebreak especially when you play with the… with probably the best of history… between him and Rod Laver, no? Is just always a pleasure… for me is really a honour… against Roger… is always a very good match… and I wish all the best for him for the rest of the season… he deserve.”

The people go crazy, giving it up to you for a last time, but then they get silent again and I know they are waiting for the more personal questions from Jim now.

But those never come. I’m grateful for this. He is a former player, he knows how emotional these matches can get, and also a pretty good friend of ours, so he knows what I really want to do is leaving the court finally and see you in the locker room.

Jim goes on at the margin of the tennis side of our relationship. “If you would tell us what it meant to you, this rivalry with Roger throughout your career… What is it like to participate in this with him?”

I shrug sheepishly. “Is just amazing, no? Is fantastic you have one player in front of you… I saw him without mistakes, having totally complete game so… the only thing I did all my career is try to… to keep learning, no? Because I always saw in front of me one player better than me.”

Jim is nodding during my explanation. He really does know. And he agrees.

I cast a shy smile at him in the end and I know the questions about you are over. He asks me about my knee injury and I talk of how it is a dream for me to be here today and reach the final because when two weeks ago I sat on a hospital bed crying, I didn’t believe this would be possible.

I praise the tournament, the organization, the fans coming out to support us, telling them this is the favourite place of most players.

Then Jim says I will have two days off now before the final and I totally forgot it, so a slight surprise washes over me, and then some great deal of happiness. I perfectly know what I will spend those two days with. Or with who. And not just those two days but the rest of my life.

Finally Jim asks me to give some advice to Andy Murray who plays against Novak tomorrow in the other semi-final. I say Andy should play more aggressive than usual, that is my advice. But they shouldn’t ask me because I lost to Novak six times in a row. This sends the crowd into giggles.

Something, probably the burden of our match, just falls off of me now and I grin ear-to-ear from now on, deep inside of me only waiting for the moment when I’m released from my duty here and can go back to you. It’s soon. I know I don’t have to linger much.

And indeed, no more questions left, so I get my bags and quickly go to the stands at the tunnel, to give some autographs. That being done, I almost jog to the locker room to find you sitting on the bench, still unchanged, elbows on your knees, your head hung between your shoulders.

I drop my stuff and carefully sit beside you. My leg touches yours. Nobody says anything.

Minutes pass until you break the silence, almost whispering. “I just really wanted this, you know. I thought… just this once… I believed…”

There are no words I could say to make you feel better right now. I only slip closer and nuzzle into your neck. But you are still too wrapped up in your loss and not in the mood for anything like this. So you straighten up and stand.

“Shower,” you say.

“Roger…”

“No! Please! You stay away!” you say in a raised voice.

“But…”

“I’ll be all right. Later.” With that you pick your shower bag up and walk away.

“Always later… stay away…” I mutter to myself and go to take a shower, too, at the farthest stall from you.

When I’m done and coming back to the locker to get dressed, you are obviously gone. I sigh, put my clothes on and decide to not bother with drying my hair. I look at my phone for the time and gasp in surprise to see I have a new text from you.

**’Gone to Media Room. Sorry for being short with you! You played great and looked breathtaking, Raf. I love you! R’**

That is my call. It must be. Stay away? I don’t think so!

So I throw all my stuff in my bags hastily and leave everything to dash for the press room.

When I enter, at the floor circle of it, it smells tense. I look around, up to the stands and see it’s packed. Ironic, it’s always the same, if not more jammed after a big loss. I roll my eyes and focus on you in the middle of the podium, just sitting down in your chair, ready to face the hyenas.

But before the press conference could begin someone notices me and my name is spread in whispers all over the place.

You look straight at me, staring; your face is blank for a long moment. I offer a smile and an apologetic shrug from the back of the room and you suddenly smile back.

“Uhm…” you say, standing up from your seat, bent to reach the microphone, “do you guys mind if Rafa joins us?”

A loud murmur sweeps through the journalists. Of course they don’t mind, it’s just getting more and more sensational, no?

You wave me over with another smile, brighter than the first. I walk to the table, watching you asking for another chair but then changing your mind and not waiting for anybody else, going to fetch one yourself and setting it beside yours.

“Hi,” you mumble when I get there.

“You say later, Rogi. Later was too late, I sorry!” I say, blushing and trying to hide it from the photographers in the first rows. Unsuccessfully.

“I…” you begin but then bite your lower lip and grab my hand, pulling me behind the desk. “I’m happy you came. Sit!”

We take seats and you let my hand go while finding a comfortable position, but take it again and bring it to your thigh. It stays like that, fingers entwined, hidden from the peering eyes.

My face is hot, I’m sure I won’t stop blushing for the whole interview.

You clear your throat and look at the moderator questioningly. The lady sure finds the situation shocking because at first she has to search for words. But then she composes herself.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the… joint press conference of Mr Roger Federer and Mr Rafael Nadal. Semi-final, Australian Open 2012, Rafael Nadal defeats Roger Federer 6-7(5), 6-2, 7-6(5), 6-4. Questions in English, please!”

There is dead silence. Probably the journalists have just realized this is the first time they do something like this, so they can’t decide how it should go, who they should question.

You clear your throat once again. “Come on, guys, we can’t be that scary together!”

They laugh. Hopefully the spell is broken now!

“Uhm… Rafa, how are you feeling right now after such a tight encounter again?” Neil from The Times asks.

“Oh, err… I happy, no? Is always nice to play Roger and always happen in important matches. I am happy I win but also feel bad he lost, no?”

“Roger, what about you?” comes the next question.

“I’m happy, too. Happy it’s over!” you say with a half smile and I feel your grip tighten on my hand, and then loosen again. “You know, I played really good, I thought this time I might win… but despite of my chances I couldn’t. You always have to take your chances with Rafa, otherwise the match is slipping out of your hands. I think it was fairly in mine and then I didn’t live up to my chances. It’s not enough just to get them, create them…”

A guy from the stands talks next. “Roger, do you think Rafa plays better against you?”

You take a side glance at me, than look back into the man’s eyes. “Yes, I think so he does. Unfortunately,” you reply and the room erupts in laughter.

The man goes on, now looking at me. “Rafa, do you agree?”

I give a small shrug and a bashful smile. “I play best for Roger.”

“I told you so!” you counter and we stare at each other and then burst out of giggles.

I definitely want to do more of these cheery pressers in the future.

Soon they all focus on tennis itself, not so much shaken by the fact of us sitting here together, going into details about the tournament, the other semi-final, scheduling, and so on.

“Rafa, would you rather play Andy in the final than Novak?”

“I prefer the player who gonna play worse that day,” I say, laughing. The people join in and I hear you snort beside me. I look at you, asking, “What?” You start to giggle, too. “That’s what I can say, no?” I add, slightly confused.

After this a lady clears her throat at the higher stands. “Please forgive me for this, and don’t think I’m trying to dig too deep and step into your personal space… but from up here we can see you are holding hands…”

You interrupt her politely but firmly. “You are digging too deep right now,” you warn her, but then lift our joint hands up and place them to rest on the table, openly, for every eye to see. “Now you are not!” you continue and make everybody chuckle again. “Go on, please!” you urge the now blushing lady. “But I’d rather you not ask about what we do in the bedroom because the world couldn’t handle that answer!”

This earns quite a few hisses and some harsher laughter. The noisy woman is put in her place a bit too meanly to even gather what she was going to ask in the first place, but you change your tone toward her and get friendlier. “I’m sorry… Please, really go on! Actually…” and you turn to the moderator, “could we just scratch that bedroom thing from the transcript?”

She nods – everybody else laughs –, and you focus on the journalist again. “You were saying…?”

Meanwhile I just turn my head back and force between you and the woman, and get redder and redder by the moment. Maybe holding joint conferences is not that much of a good idea.

“Uhm, so, Roger, just seeing your obviously loving relationship with Rafa being on display… does this help you to cope with losses? Do you recover faster because it was him who you lost to?”

“Oh… that’s a nice question,” you admit, a bit taken aback. “Sure it doesn’t matter to who I lose, I still get the same disappointed with myself. There are two main differences though. One, it’s Rafa we are talking about here. He is my nemesis, that’s what you guys like to say, isn’t it? It means he is the best opponent. Or the worst, it depends on the angle. What I’m trying to say is that I wasn’t complete without a main rival. Not on court and not off court. You can’t reach your best if you are not pushed hard enough. He pushes me hard. As his record shows, too hard, actually.”

You look at me again, briefly, and I feel your thumb smoothing over mine when you go on.

“As for our private life, in the end of the day it doesn’t matter who beats who because this is my partner here, the man I’m committed to. The only thing matters is that Rafa is the one I love and no sport can change that, not anything else. So basically yes, my answer is yes. It’s easier to cope with a loss against him.”

I’m dazed, my heart is thumping fast against my ribcage and my head is spinning and I want to explode because I surely can’t hold all my feelings inside. But then I get a new question and I have to concentrate on that.

“Rafa, how will you spend your two days off?”

I open my mouth but you beat me to it. “I take him away to a nice place, to have some good rest and practice,” you announce.

“You do?” I ask, stunned.

“Yes,” you grin. I can’t argue with that happy face.

“And tonight, Roger? How do you guys unwind after an exhausting match like that? Is there any trick?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know yet… I guess I just take him home…” you say and then look me in the eye. “Yeah?” you ask me.

I understand that this is our little personal chat right now, in front of a hundred journalists who haven’t got the slightest idea what this question is really about.

But I know.

I hold your gaze earnestly. “Sí. We go home.”

We tighten the grip on each other’s hand in unison.

I’m sure that the amount of love I can see in your eyes would make me weep very soon so I cast my glance downward. But I still feel you looking at me for long after.

We soon end the English part of the presser and before you get the first question in either French or German, you cover the microphone and turn to me.

“You should go eat something while I’m finishing here.”

I shake my head. “I fine, Roger. I stay and want you stay for my Spanish round!” I plead and squeeze your hand. “I no wanna let go.”

You nod and so I listen to you chatting in languages I still don’t speak and have you following the end of my conference in Spanish.

They go on and on about tennis and you and the final and who knows what else when I feel I’m running out of gas completely. I rest my head on my hand, on the table and hardly manage to hide a yawn.

You step in at once, asking the moderator to call for the last question and the next I know is you are standing up and pulling me with you.

Outside of the press room there are our teams – they waited this long just to congratulate to both of us. There are many hugs, many ’proud of yous’.

Titín has my gear packed and Severin has yours. We don’t have to go back to the locker room anymore and I’m really grateful for that. We get cars and we climb in one of them and soon we are back at the hotel; you are unlocking Marc’s door and letting us in.

I shout for Marc and he comes to hug me and pat you on the shoulder, saying what a good match it was again and he was waiting for us to show up.

“I uh… I go home now, Marc,” I tell him.

“Finally!” he exclaims in broken English, rolling his eyes and raising his arms toward the sky. “Thank God!”

“Was I such a bother?” I ask him in Spanish.

“No, you were miserable, dickhead!” he replies and smacks my head.

I don’t know how much you catch of this exchange but you seem pretty amused.

Packing my stuff is a silent act, as well as walking back to our suite after we have said thanks and good night to Marc.

“So…” you say, walking a bit further in the living room while I’m locking the door, “you are back.”

We are still both holding the bags and staring at the other. “Sí. I am back,” I nod and all the emotions are bubbling up in me and it feels insane for a moment.

Suddenly I drop my bags and quickly close the distance between us to gather you in my arms and kiss you with all my passion. Your bags also make it to the floor with a loud thud and I’m walking you backward to the couch. You are kissing me back, moaning so loud, and I’m ripping your zipper open and all the other clothes off.

“You not hungry?” you ask, only mumbling and helping me get rid of my clothes.

“Sí,” I moan, biting your neck and slipping my hand under the waistband of your briefs to push them out of the way.

“Food?” you ask, still trying to be reasonable, up until I take your cock in my hand and pump. Then you grunt and it’s an easy task to push you back onto the couch. You let yourself to be manhandled.

“Later,” I grin. That’s for all the ‘laters’ I have got from you today.

I run to the bedroom to find the lube and lose the remaining clothes on my way back. Then I climb in your lap and do probably the fastest preparing ever, only with one finger inside of me.

“Add one more!” you say but I just shake my head and reach for your cock, making it slippery and sinking down on it.

I stay still when your hard flesh is pushed deep inside of me. You are watching me, squeezing my ass cheeks with both hands, breathing fast, uneven.

I bend, we are trading slow kisses and I start to ride you slowly.

It’s smooth, languid and lazy, speeding up only when you thrust up into me and the changed angle allows your cock to scrape my sweet spot with every move.

You touch me, jerking me to the rhythm I set and we never stop licking into each other’s mouths. I swallow your cry when you come and follow you in a minute, slumping completely forward into your chest, when it’s over.

Your palms are sliding over my back, up and down and up again. I’m spent and sated.

There are no words to say I am too heavy or we should clean up the mess or the drying come between our bellies is sticky and uncomfortable. We are catching up with the outside world slowly, re-entering it after being away for a while in our own kingdom that is ruled by love. And hot sex, no?

“What?” you ask when I snort at my thought.

“Hmm, nada.”

“I know you, it’s something!” you insist.

I smile into your warm skin and rub my nose on you. “You no have to know everything.”

You hum at me and accept it. We stay cuddled and joint until your cock finally slips out of me and I scrunch my nose and make a protesting noise. You laugh and nudge me to get up.

“Food now!” you command.

We clean up only where it’s really crucial, otherwise we stay sweaty and stinky, either of us bothered by it. On the contrary, your smell makes my groin throb again even before the food arrives.

We eat in silence.

I catch you looking at me once with such a thoughtful face it makes me feel a bit thrown off.

“¿Qué?” I ask.

You stare on and talk only when I already think you won’t answer. “Don’t leave me alone anymore!”

I duck my head first but then I look up at you and shake it. I will not. Ever.

“No massage,” I state when we are lying in bed later, meaning we didn’t even get massages after our long and straining match.

You shrug, pull me closer and let out a long, long sigh. I think this is the first time you relax.

“We get it in the morning,” you say. “Now sleep!”

I move, sliding more on top of you and tuck my face in the crook of your neck. My nose, as if acting on its own, nuzzling into you and you giggle.

“All right, Raf, now that you have marked your territory, can we really sleep?”

I murmur words but they won’t form a sentence anymore and you giggle on and tighten your hold around my body, and I am so tired and aching and still happy because what aches the most is my heart and it aches with love.

I’m back. I’m safe.

I’m home.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 27th of JANUARY, 2012

We are on our way to the mysterious place you are taking me to before the clock shows noon, which is an achievement considering that we went to bed so late.

You are driving, I’m dozing off in my seat, the sun is shining brightly – it is a beautiful day. My mind feels super relaxed by the certainty of your presence by my side – my body feels the same calm and rested after the long sleep and the satisfying morning massage.

We got the massages in our suite, the two tables set close, Stéphane working on you and Titín on me. It was a strange experience and all in all just got me horny when I heard you groan and grunt.

I could still pretty much jump on you, which is why sleep cannot claim me fully.

The car is a convertible and I am enjoying the breeze blowing through my hair, cooling me in the dry Australian heat.

I look at you with drowsy eyes, smiling sluggishly. You are bumping your head to the beat of some obviously Aussie pop song that is blasting from the radio and softly whistling the melody.

“What?” you ask, noticing I’m watching.

My eyes slide to your long track pants. “You not warm?” I can barely endure my shorts and t-shirt and my feet are burning in the shoes.

You grin. “Nope. But I’m getting hot if you keep eating me up with that look!”

I feel my cheeks heat up unbearably but I don’t look away. “I want to eat you up, sí!”

“Jeez, Rafa…” you groan, “You have no idea how sexy that contradiction of your innocent face and the dirty things you suggest is!”

“Mmhhmmm… you show me?”

You send a kind of warning glance toward me and I keep blinking as innocently as I can pretend.

You groan again, more frustrated this time, and with a rather sudden jerk turn the wheel to the left and the car leaves the main road to follow a minor one.

“What you doing, Rog?”

You don’t answer, just drive on and we reach the beach soon, arriving at a small, hidden bay, surrounded by some rocks, covered in sand, light waves kissing the shore.

It’s beautiful.

You stop the car where it’s yet not too sandy and turn the engine off, then unbuckle your seatbelt and get out. I watch you walking to my side, opening the door and unfastening my belt, too.

“Come on!” you say, demanding, and pull me out of the seat, out of the car, and right to your body.

We crash and you are kissing me, it’s urgent and rough.

“Want you so much,” you mutter while going on to place sucking kisses onto my jaw, neck and – yanking the shirt out of the way –, my collarbone.

I’m moaning loud and gripping on you for dear life. You are pulling my shorts and briefs down and though my unconscious protests, I can only cast a quick look around to see if the location is indeed deserted and then don’t do anything to stop you pushing me back to the car’s side and sinking to your knees to engulf my forming hardness in your mouth.

I breathe out a strained ‘Roger!’ when you begin to suck in earnest manner and your fingers brush into the crack of my ass, touching the entrance there. My whole body throbs with need.

You release me with an obscene popping sound. “Come,” you say and I’m blindly following you deeper in the sand, closer to the waterline. You stop where it’s thick enough, soft to touch, and turning me around, push me onto all fours.

“You no want to…”

“Oh, I do!” you cut me off and yank my pants lower, kneeling behind me.

“But…”

“Hush you!”

“What if…”

“No one is around!”

I hear you fuss with the clothes and then I feel cool, slick fingers caressing my hole and probing inside. One sinks in easily to the hilt and after a short circling inside, your cock replaces it.

I lose it then and there. You pull me back onto you, guiding my hips with your strong hands. I listen to your grunts and my moans are matching them. I have never been this hard in my life; I whimper with every touch of my prostate. I briefly think of pulling on my cock but my hands are full of sand and it doesn’t matter anyway because in a minute I’m coming undone under you and pour all I have onto the hot surface.

You stay still while I’m riding my orgasm and then thrust a few more times and I feel your seed filling me inside.

You slump forward into my back and knock me down on my elbows, then a bit later when you have already taken a breather, pull me with you and roll us over to our backs. We stay laid out there for a while and I’m grinning ear to ear.

The situation is ridiculous but I couldn’t care less.

I keep my eyes closed, shutting the sun out. I hear you searching for something and then I feel a touch – you are cleaning me, then yourself.

“Turn!” you say and wipe off the liquid that is seeping out of me.

We both giggle and then just lie here on the sand, with stupid grins on our faces, for long, until I hear you sigh. I think of asking what it is but when I squint at you I see you must feel just content.

Minutes tick away and the burning sun makes me itchy soon.

“So where we going, Roger?” I ask finally, leaning up on my elbow, facing you.

You get up sitting, rearranging your clothes clumsily, getting rid of your track pants and staying only in shorts. Then you look around, shielding your eyes with a hand, and point at a bigger rock at the next bay.

“There!”

And when I follow your gaze to that direction, I see an all-white, all-glass beach house on top of that cliff, looking onto the ocean.

“Oh.” This is my intelligent answer. Then I start to laugh, it’s shaking my whole body.

You look at me, one eyebrow lifted in curiosity.

“Just… could you no wait 5 minute more to get there?” I ask, still snickering.

“Hmm,” you say. “Obviously not!”

“And you had lube in your pocket!” I go on.

“Always prepared,” you grin, eyes glinting.

“Always perfect,” I add.

You are shaking sand out of your hair, murmuring how this is absolutely not perfect.

I laugh. “Always you, bitching about hair, no?”

You make a pained face. It’s not serious though.

Back in the car – not caring about bringing sand in it as it is not ours –, we are passing a bottle of water back and force, sipping and swallowing slowly, and you look so happy, seem so alive, smiling, making my lips pull upward, as well.

We arrive in the beach house and I wander about, looking at every room and space, absently thinking I should worry about my final tomorrow, or the preparation to it, but instead I am here with you, only the two of us, and I just want to find you in the kitchen where you are filling the fridge with the food we brought, and press your body to the cool machine and kiss you senseless until our heat warms up the fridge and the food go bad.

“Penny for your thoughts!” I hear you say.

I linger at the terrace and you are coming to me, embracing me from behind.

“Wanna go swimming?”

“Sí.”

“Go get your gear then!”

We are splashing around in the sea for long, just having much fun and playing water fútbol, and in the end snacking under a huge _sunbrella_ , how you call it.

Later, with garlic pasta cooked and a bottle of white wine opened (half of it drunk already), we are watching Novak getting into the final. I’m giggling at your grunts and cusses and closer to the match’s end your dramatic sigh.

“I’m gonna get more wine now, otherwise I can’t stand this shit,” you mutter, and I’m still hearing your low voice chatting yourself while you are out in the kitchen, dealing with the new bottle and the opener.

You get pretty tipsy in half an hour and look very pretty like that. And reckless. And sexy. And while they are running highlights of our semi-final on TV, we are doing a rather intense fucking on the couch and it’s surely the weirdest thing I have ever done!

Breaths slowing down, we watch match point and my stomach churns again when I see ourselves to meet at the net.

“You were a bit cold to me,” I say softly.

“Wasn’t my intention, I was just too much inside my own head,” you explain, not that I didn’t know this. “And I’m making it up to you!” you wink and pull me close, to your chest.

You seem like not getting enough of me, never enough, and we are kissing and touching under the rays of water in the bathroom and fall in bed still wet and you find an easy way into my body again.

I’m smoothing over every curve on you while you are slowly moving in me, in and out, in and out – it is a loving dance, sheer joy, and I never look away from your eyes.

Afterwards you are murmuring you still felt you needed to mark your property after being apart and I really want to protest but the shine in your eyes mute me for some reason and I silently accept you have just welcomed me back again, and for good.

Maybe it’s foolish but I still feel the need to talk about it.

“About what, Rafa?” you ask.

I shrug clumsily. “I being stupid.”

You laugh. It radiates warmth. “There’s nothing more to talk through now, I already forgot it.

“That all?”

“Uhum. Maybe just one thing, if you insist… Next time, I’d appreciate if you didn’t go away but face it together with me! How about that?”

“Even if is awkward, being together?”

You look at me, shaking your head slightly amused. “Rafa, we are living together. Don’t know about you, but for me that means I don’t care about hurt, pain, stupid shit being said to each other, you name it… I care about only doing it with you. If it’s bad stuff, then be it! So promise me you learn to deal with it in my presence!”

I consider it. “But you prepared a room for me in the house. So how is that no being apart?”

“You can’t be serious! Yes, in the house. In our house! That’s not the same as down the corridor in another hotel room with Marc López!” you exclaim.

I see your point and I admit it with a nod.

“Good,” you say, pleased. “Now go to sleep. Toni and Titín arrive in the morning… there is a tennis and golf club nearby and we are going to get you all pumped for that godforsaken final.”

You giggle at me groaning and scoot close, body flush to mine, lips ghosting over my ear.

“It must make sense in the end, Raf. You’ll see!”

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 28th of JANUARY, 2012

Quiet day, this one.

I work hard at practice and you work hard along with me, being the sparring partner and giving me some insight into a possible future, namely, what it could be like if you were to coach someone. You are quite a cruel piece of shit being in charge. Toni appraisingly claps and nods at you and I roll my eyes.

We play some golf as a warm-down and have a quiet afternoon. After that we drive back to Melbourne and I am late to my pre-final press conference because we set the alarm an hour too late. The journos are snickering at me and I blatantly lie that it was your fault.

At night in bed you set your palm against my ribcage, to find where my heart beats.

“Now close your eyes!” you command.

When I obey, you say, “Breathe in…” and I do, then, “breathe out!” And I do.

“This sounds too sexy,” I giggle when you make me repeat it.

“Would you take this seriously?” you scold me. “Now say ’I’m ready!’”

I keep breathing with my eyes shut for a while and when I open them finally, I think this worked.

“I am ready!”

And you smile at me.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 29th of JANUARY, 2012

Whatever I was ready for, I didn’t expect this!

I play the longest Grand Slam final ever against Novak. I feel like you when playing me – creating my chances during the 5 hours and 53 minutes of it, but cannot turn them to my advantage.

I lose. Nothing much to say, no?

“That was some ugly tennis there,” you comment afterwards. Trust you to always have something like that to say! I laugh. “I knew he could bring the worst out of you, but this was something epically unattractive, Raf!” you go on. “But you know what? I had time to think while you were battling out there and I believe this is why I had to lose to you, for you being in this final and learning you can win against Novak. You were so close to do it! You haven’t just yet… but next time!”

I had the same thoughts while I was cramping and breathing hard during the ceremony, hardly capable of standing anymore. Yes, now we see the bigger picture and you nailed it. This has to be the reason.

“Next time!” I say it out loud and kind of promise you and myself.

### MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA, 30th of JANUARY, 2012

“What is it?” you ask, scared out of your dream when I noisily bump my ankle into the nightstand. I take a glance at the clock – it’s 3:30 am.

“Can no sleep… you just go back to rest, Rogi,” I whisper. But you are already awake and sitting up in the bed. “¡Lo siento!” I apologize.

“It’s okay… Come back here!” you ask me and I climb in bed again. “Is it just the adrenalin of the final or you have something on your mind?”

I lay my head on your chest. “More the match, sí. And thinking what is next.”

You hum. “What’s next?”

“Hmm… I think I gonna kiss you next,” I say and lifting my head, my lips find yours and we bask in a glorious, content feeling.

“What’s next?” you again question me playfully when we part.

“Next… I think I take two weeks off. Other two to practise.”

“Uhum. Good plan,” you nod. “Though I admit I expected some sex now!” You stare at me seriously but then the pretence collapses and you laugh it off. “So, back to the beautiful and icy Swiss winter?”

“Sí. I can no avoid, no?” I make a face but you giggle on, perfectly knowing I love it there when I already had some days to acclimate.

You embrace me close and randomly fall asleep soon. I just lie awake and morning coming, I slide out of bed again and go to make coffee for you.

The day is being spent with packing. I think I left some t-shirts at Marc’s but whatever. They weren’t my favourite ones and how I know him being so nice, he will turn them back to me when he notices.

“This is ridiculous how much stuff we travel with,” you complain, sending sharp looks toward Ozee, Bear and Cangu in particular. I just laugh.

During the afternoon we also take some time to say goodbye to most of our team members. Your coach, Paul, and my team and family take flights directly to the United States and Spain. Only the Swiss contingent of your posse comes with us.

Honestly, I love my folks dearly, but I can’t contain my excitement for spending the next days with you and only you!

At midnight we are at the airport, boarding the jet that flies us from the summer to the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is; the final chapter of Love Game. It turned out extra long. Originally the end would have been after the semi-final day when Rafa comes home but then I added another three days to make leaving Australia the ending. This way maybe it has a bit less 'end' feeling and it will be easier to take the line up again when I'm going to continue posting in the future.
> 
> I would like to say a huge thanks to everybody who had ever read any parts or all, and commented or given Kudos! It was a great adventure to go through this journey with all of you; I only hope you guys enjoyed reading as much as I did writing this story! I hope to see you again later! :)


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